A Shaggy Dog Story
by Lampito
Summary: When a Hunt goes south, Dean takes desperate measures to save Sam. And it works. Dean doesn't care if Sam's grumpy about what he did – his baby bro is alive and well, so he'll take all the complaining that Sammy can dish out; but if Sam cocks a leg on the Impala, he reserves the right to swat him with a rolled-up newspaper...
1. Chapter 1

"Oh, why don't you just write them both? At the same time?"

Le sigh. The Denizens: they has teh demanding. And I haven't even finished tallying up the numbers for the last couple to knock out those Special Bonus Features. You people are relentless, remorseless, and a whole bunch of other words ending with –less_. Have you no compassion?_

Well, you never know, we might end up getting a story out of bunny #1 at some point in the future. But it seems that for now, bunny #2 (who could be named Wolfgang. Or Mavis, I'm not sure) has the vote, so I fed it some of those reviews, and eventually the evil little mongrel dictated a next chapter. Nothing resembling a full plot yet, but you know how this works, sometimes giving them an airing will encourage them. For the completeness of the story, I will republish Chapter One as the first part of this story.

I struggled for a title for this one; I thought of It Takes A Pack To Raise A Pup, A Ruff Night, A New Leash On Life, An American Werewolf In America, A Paws In Proceedings, but nothing really jumped off the keyboard, so for now, let's just call it…

**Working Title:** A Shaggy Dog Story

**Rating:** T. Unless I muzzle Dean. Which would probably just end up bumping it to MA, which FFN most definitely does NOT accommodate.

**Summary:** When a Hunt goes south, Dean takes desperate measures to save Sam. And it works. Dean doesn't care if Sam's grumpy about what he did – his baby bro is alive and well, so he'll take all the complaining that Sammy can dish out; but if Sam cocks a leg on the Impala, he reserves the right to swat him with a rolled-up newspaper. A story of the Jimiverse.

**Blame:** Not sure who bred this little plot bunny, but, as always, you can be sure it was one of the Denizens, Lurkers, Visitors or Casual Droppers-In who haunt the Jimiverse. It's ALL THEIR FAULT.

**Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Seriously, the way they bicker like six-year-olds, I'd have banged their heads together by now.

And if anyone thinks they recognise the bunny and can tell me its name, please do so. Real names have power, bwahahahaha…

* * *

**A SHAGGY DOG STORY**

**Chapter One**

_Not like this. Not like this. Not like this._

The thought bounced around in Dean's head as he ripped off his own overshirt and clutched it to the gaping wound on Sam's side; his brother's shirt was already soaked through, and the blood flow showed little sign of slowing.

_Not like this. Not like this. No, Sammy, not like this._

"Stay with me bro," he half demanded, half begged, watching Sam try desperately to keep focused on him, but his little brother was losing the battle. "Stay with me, just until I can get you patched up, then we'll hit the nearest Emergency Room, and check out the nurses..."

"Dean," Sam's voice was barely a choked whisper, "Dean... "

"I gotcha, bro, I gotcha," Dean made himself smile, even as his voice caught. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy, you'll be fine..."

Black dogs. Not one, but two. They never saw it coming. If Jimi hadn't been there to offer a last-minute warning, and then run interference on one of them, both Winchesters would be dead.

As it was, it looked like, pretty soon, one might be.

_Not like this. Not like this._

Whining, Jimi Junior licked at Sam's face, and turned large, worried eyes to Dean.

"Cold," whispered Sam, his grip on Dean's arm fading, "Dean... it's cold..."

"I know," Dean picked up his jacket, and draped it over his fallen brother, "But you just hang in there, and stay awake for me, and..."

Sam's eyes fluttered, and closed.

_Not like this._

Dean looked around wildly. They were too far from the car – he'd never get his baby bro back there in time, and he couldn't take his hands off the wounds, or Sam would bleed out there and then. They'd had to hike in to track the Black Dogs; emergency services would never get to them in time. They'd never get Sam out in time. He was screwed. They were screwed. Totally screwed.

Jimi lay down next to Sam, huddling against him, and whined sadly. In the light of the full moon, his eyes were full on an understanding that no ordinary dog would have.

The full moon. It was the last night of the full moon.

Racked with desperation and a crushing sense of guilt and a loss he couldn't bear, Dean took out his cell, and made a call, relaying a desperate message in a voice that was half-sob, and sent some co-ordinates.

As he rang off and put his other hand back to the field dressing, he whispered to his brother:

"Forgive me."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sitting in cold darkness, begging his brother not to die, Dean finally heard the sound of something big crashing through the undergrowth towards them well before it arrived – whatever it was, it was in too much of a hurry to bother with stealth at all. Jimi stood up, and howled mournfully into the night.

The answering howl was deeper, and make the hair on Dean's neck stand up.

"Here!" he yelled as loudly as he could, "We're here! Over here!"

The noise changed direction slightly. Jimi set up a frantic barking, a beacon for a searcher to home in on...

Seven-plus feet of alpha-male Old North werewolf burst through the trees and into the clearing, chest heaving, fangs bristling. It barely paused, dropping to all fours to run at the Winchesters.

Looming over Sam, the monster paused and eyed Dean.

"Do it!" he hissed urgently.

With a gruff snarl of understanding, the monster crouched, reared back, and sank its teeth into his little brother's arm.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Some minutes later, a smaller werewolf, a female, arrived at the clearing, and raced to Dean's side. She had a bag clutched in her mouth, which she dropped at his knee.

"Ronnie," he almost sobbed in relief, as the wolf shifted back to her human form. "Thank fuck..."

"I sent him ahead," she panted, jerking a thumb at the male, who was prowling the clearing, alert for any further threats, "Because his legs are longer, and he can go faster. And he's not so good at carrying stuff." She tore into the bag, which contained several large field dressings. "Here, use these," she instructed, "At least we can secure 'em. Andrew, stop prowling, you berk, if there were any more Black Dogs within cooee you've scared them all to death with your noise, you werehippo – come here and do med shit!"

The male loped back to them, and appeared to be concentrating hard.

"Oh, fuck," moaned Ronnie, "Of all the times for you to get stuck..."

With a whine and a shake of his head, Andrew managed to transform.

"Yes! Yesss! I'm the king of the world!" he yipped in a brief moment of triumph, before dropping to his knees to examine Sam. "It's bad," he stated without preamble, "We gotta get him to Emergency. Fifteen minutes ago."

"We found where you parked," Ronnie told Dean, as he secured another dressing on top of the ones holding his brother together, "You're bloody miles away. We're gunna have to do this in fur coats."

"I can live with that," muttered Dean, not looking up as he applied a dressing to the bite wound that Andrew had left. "Thanks, guys."

"Don't thank us yet," Andrew said grimly, "I dunno if I got to him soon enough. Let's go." He stood, looked up at the moon as if bathing in the light, and let himself shift back to the wolf.

Carefully, he picked up Sam, and headed back the way he'd come at a ground-eating lope. Jimi took off, hot on his heels.

"Don't worry," Ronnie assured him, "He cut a track wide enough to drive a bloody truck through on the way in. So looks like it's just you and me. You ever learn to ride?"

"Rode a donkey once," Dean muttered, looking anxiously at where Andrew had just disappeared with his brother. "At the Grand Canyon. It farted a lot, apparently."

"I'll do my best not to," grinned Ronnie, standing, "And if I do, we'll leave the smell behind anyway. So, how does that bumper sticker go? Get in, shut up – and hang on."

With a shrug, she shifted to her wolf form, and dropped to all fours to allow him to climb onto her back.

He barely had time to get a hold on her fur before she began to run.

* * *

For anybody who is new to the Jimiverse (Gday! Come on in, grab a drink, we've got cake over there, and some nibblies just coming out of the oven, no glass in the spa tub, and no molesting Winchesters on the pool table), Ronnie (The World's Crankiest Werewolf) and her pair-bond, Andrew (who is good-natured, sometimes bemused, often gets stuck in his wolf form when shapeshifting and is in fact bloody huge when he does shapeshift) are OCs from the Jimiverse fanfic sandbox. Ronnie's from Queensland, Australia (where they breed 'em grumpy), and they're Old North werewolves (traditional 'giant wolf' lycanthropes, not the 'we can only afford to glue on some teeth and put in some contacts' ones you'll see on SPN - the benefits of fanfiction include not having to stick to a special effects budget). Even as werewolves go, they are an odd couple; as a werewolf, Ronnie is short, even for a female (just as tall as Sam), but she's heavily built, and says she makes up for it by being sneaker and nastier.

So, leave a review, and feed the plot bunny, whoever it may be, Wolfgang, or Mavis. Maybe it's Wolfgang, and he works as a drag bunny, and his stage name is Mavis. Or maybe Mavis is a drag king who works as Wolfgang. Or, the heat Down Here is getting to me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The werewolves transported the Winchesters back to the Impala, where Andrew carefully manoeuvred Sam into the back, then stood back and growled urgently, gesturing with his long arms. _Go! Just go!_

"We'll catch up," gasped Ronnie, collapsing to her knees as she shifted back to human form and struggling to get her breath back, "Can't keep up, we'll just slow you down. GO!"

The scenario was one that Dean had been through before, and it didn't get any easier: heading for the nearest hospital with Sam bleeding in the back seat, alternating between begging him not to die and threatening to kill him if he did, yelling for help, then seeing his baby brother, his baby brother whom he was supposed to look after for fuck's sake, whisked away by grim-faced medical staff exchanging rapid-fire salvos of incomprehensible doctor-speak.

Then there was the well-meaning triage nurse who looked at the bruises and scratches on his face and arms (Ronnie had been more concerned with speed than providing a comfortable transit back through the woods) and wanted to check him for signs of concussion as he spilled the story of being attacked by a pack of dogs whilst out on a camping trip.

He allowed an intern who looked about fifteen to clean up his wounds, then it was the long, agonising wait in a waiting room fitted with the usual unbelievably uncomfortable chairs, outrageously mislabelled 'coffee' machine that dispensed lukewarm dishwater apparently piped directly from the drain of the nearest dishwasher, a homeless guy who was just looking to get out of the cold for a little while and a whining child who had been dragged along by over-anxious Mommy because he'd fallen on his precious little ass and bumped his precious little foot and was now bored and overtired and attempting to alleviate the situation by doing a precious little aeroplane impersonation round and round the room (adding in precious little machine gun sound effects every time he went past Dean; Dean resisted the urge to trip the precious little asshat up, just so that at least the kid would end up with a legitimate reason to be there. Hopefully, he'd sprain his precious little tongue.)

What seemed like an age later, as he was staring out the window and willing Sam not to be dead, his hindbrain twitched, detecting the smell of actual coffee, then there was a bump at his elbow.

"Here," Ronnie handed over a cup, "I know for a fact you won't get anything except recycled sewage out of those bloody machines. And only the stuff that missed the recycler." She waved a bag of donuts. "Got these, too. Good for what ails ya, as Bobby would say. Donuts can fix a lot of things."

Dean snorted mirthlessly. "Can they cure a Black Dog attack?"

"No," conceded Ronnie, "But they can make an anxious wait marginally less uncomfortable. Any crisis is best dealt with on a full stomach."

"That's another one of Bobby's," he grunted.

"And he's right. He's a Man of Knowledge, doncha know." She proffered the bag.

"Where's Andrew?" he asked, taking the bag, and wincing as the precious little child did another circuit (having changed from turbo prop to jet turbine).

Ronnie gave him a long-suffering look. "Stuck. Where else?" she sighed. "It's difficult at this time of the moon. He hasn't had as much practice as me, although he's getting better. He's in the back of the truck, with a six pack. He'll emerge when – if – he's feeling more human. I just hope that he doesn't growl at any traffic cops. I've gotten away with the story about the South African Hippohound a couple of times, but it's only a matter of time before somebody calls me on it. Or, worse, asks to be put on the waiting list for a puppy."

Dean couldn't help laugh at that. "You could put a collar on him, as part of his cover," he suggested.

"You kinky bastard," she grumped, handing over the donuts. "If you give me your keys, I'll bring you some stuff from your car, because I know for a fact you're going to stay here until..." her voice trailed off. "I can get Jimi, too, take him home with us. He can stay for as long as needs must."

"Thanks," he mumbled, feeling his knees wobble as the adrenaline of the occasion wore off, and the realities of the situation really started to sink in. He sank into one of the awful chairs. "Thanks, for... for everything." He handed over the key.

"I just hope it works," she replied quietly.

He took the lid off the coffee, and took a gulp of the strong black brew, then sank his teeth into the sugary calorie-laden nutrient-free goodness of a donut.

There was a sudden scream from near the exit.

It seemed that, just as Ronnie was leaving, the precious little asshat had tripped over, and was now sitting on the floor screaming the ear-splitting scream of a precious little asshat with whom there is really nothing wrong, but they're determined to make a scene anyway because, well, just because.

As over-anxious Mommy dropped her magazine and hurried to precious little asshat's side, Ronnie offered him a beatific smile, and mouthed: _Oops._

Dean shared a smile, and a donut, with the homeless guy.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Mr Kilmister?"

Dean's head snapped around. "That's me." He hurried to the tired-looking woman holding a clipboard. "I'm Sam's brother. How is he?"

"Well, you can wipe that expression of your face," she found a smile, "Because he came through the surgery just fine. Better than fine. Frankly, Mr Kilmister, given the state of his injuries and the blood loss when you brought him in, he's doing remarkably well."

She talked some more, using words like 'laceration' and 'perforation' and 'puncture' and a whole lot of jargon that just washed over him. He was only interested in one thing.

_Sam's alive._

"Can I see him?" he asked, putting as much pleading into his voice as he could.

"Of course," she told him, "He'll be in ICU for now, but I think we may be able to move him onto the general ward as early as... well, later today, now," she grinned ruefully.

It never ceased to amaze him, just how small Sam could look when surrounded by machinery going beep, bong and ping, with leads and tubes and fuck knew what else, and once more he felt the crushing sense of guilt and failure that had left his little brother in this state – guilt and failure because it had happened on Dean's watch, which was 24/7 when it came to looking out for his baby brother. And guilt and failure, because of the desperate remedy he'd sought.

_Does that make me selfish?_ he wondered, sinking into a slightly more comfortable chair by his brother's bed, _That I would do this to keep you here with me?_

_Hunters die on the job; goes with the territory._

_I just always think that it'll be me who goes first. It should be me who goes first. I won't be the one to be left behind, to grieve, to light a pyre, to say goodbye, then try to pick up the pieces, and go on. Is that selfish of me to wish that on you? Is that just how much of a screw-up I am?_

"I'm sorry," he whispered, not sure what he was apologising for, not being quick enough or not being able to let his brother go or making a decision on Sam's behalf where maybe he had no right to. "I'm sorry, Sam, I just..."

_He's alive. Sam's alive._

_That's what matters. Screw sorry. Sam's alive._

Maybe Sam would yell at him, maybe Sam would hate him, maybe the first person Sam came after on his first shapeshift would be his brother. He didn't care. It was on him, and he'd wear it, because Sam was alive.

He looked into his little brother's sleeping face, and his breath caught.

Sam's face wasn't the unhealthy, frighteningly pale colour he'd seen too many times when his brother had been badly injured: there was a wash of colour in his cheeks that hadn't been there when he went into surgery. They'd done a good job.

Or was..._ it _working?

Checking that he wouldn't be seen, he reached out to take his brother's hand, a natural gesture of concern under the circumstances, and ever so carefully brushed the heavy silver ring against the skin of his arm...

A small red welt raised immediately, looking like a small burn from a quick splash of water from a boiling kettle.

Dean jerked his hand back, belatedly stunned at the enormity of what he'd done.

_My brother's a werewolf._

_My brother's a werewolf, because I couldn't let him go._

_My brother's a monster._

_My brother's alive._

Slouching down in the chair, listening to the quiet beep of the heart monitor, he thought his head might explode. He thought he might not mind so much. He felt vaguely sorry for the poor bastard who had to come and scrape his congealed brain matter off the walls and floor.

He was just wondering whether it might be a good idea to find something to use as a drop sheet, just in case, when his cell buzzed. Mind fogged with worry and fatigue, he checked it.

It was a message without preamble, and it was the best news he'd heard from her since she'd told him the pie was cool enough to cut and he could have two pieces if he wanted:

_**Bobby says we can unto it**_

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Exhaustion finally overtook him, coffee notwithstanding; he fell into a doze in the wee small hours, no stranger to snatching sleep in an uncomfortable hospital chair.

When he awoke, peering groggily around himself, someone had draped a blanket over him. Someone had left a bag with some clean clothes and toiletries by his chair. Someone had left another real coffee.

Oh, and somebody was wheeling his brother away.

"Hey!" he blinked blearily, almost falling when the blanket tangled around him, "Hey, where are you goin'? Where are you takin' him?"

One of the nurses turned to him, and smiled. "Oh, good morning, Mr Kilmister," she said, "We didn't mean to disturb you, we were going to let you sleep as long as possible..."

"Where are you goin'?" he repeated, heading for the bed, which was disappearing out the door. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, there's nothing wrong, Mr Kilmister," the nurse assured him, "Quite the opposite. Sam did very well overnight. He's much improved, so he's going to a general ward. He doesn't need ICU."

"Yeah?" Dean blinked at her.

"Yeah," she smiled again, clearly accustomed to dealing with worried, sleep-deprived relatives. "That's good news. That means he's on the mend."

"Can I go see him?" Dean asked immediately.

"Just give them some time to get him there, get him settled, and do the handover paperwork," she suggested. "Your friend was here, left you some stuff, why don't you have a shower first, get something to eat, then go see him when you've looked after yourself?"

He took her up on the offer, heading for the bathroom where he bundled his bloodstained and torn clothes into the bag, then let the hot water work some of the stiffness out of his body, which seemed to have seized up in places he didn't even know he had places.

_Sam was alive. Sam was doing well. Sam was healing up._

_And the werewolf transformation could be undone._

_Also, not very far from the hospital there was a donut shop that did pretty good coffee._

He allowed himself a smile; suddenly, things looked better than they had in the bleak chill of the dark hours.

Dean's stomach let out a loud gurgling growl, letting him know that his brain might've spent the night angsting away, but the other poor grunts who kept the damned thing supplied with oxygen and glucose needed refuelling if he wanted that demanding grey fucker to keep functioning. He decided to go look for that donut shop first, then go to see Sam. Bobby was right, he decided. Any crisis was best dealt with on a full stomach.

* * *

If I had a racing greyhound, or a horse, I think I'd call it Mister Kilmister. It's a good name for a racer. Unless it was female – unfortunately, Bodacious Tatas has already been used... Sadly, the only thing I've ever raced is cardboard frogs on a string. Have you ever raced cardboard frogs on a string? I thoroughly recommend it. It's hilarious fun. Especially when copious quantities of alcohol are involved. Stay sober, and win money off the drunk people, because you'll quickly find that it's a bad idea to drink and hop.

Now, feed the bunny some reviews, because Reviews are the Unexpected Donuts In The Waiting Room Of Life!


	3. Chapter 3

Do you mean to tell me that there are people out there who know not the fun, the thrills, the magnificent entertainment of racing cardboard (or plywood) frogs? You people haven't lived!

There are a couple of clips on YouChoob where you can see these magnificent creatures in action:

This one is a frog breeder and trainer explaining it: paste watch?v=f1Fx48yJLpQ after the youtube prompt, or search for 'Frog racing at the Harworth and Bircotes Town Hall'. T'accent is a bonus.

Then, there's thoroughbred racing frogs in action at: watch?v=hK2zm96jYO4, or search for 'Frog Racing for Save The Children.

For hilarity, just add alcohol.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Sated with empty-carb-laden donuts, Dean found his way to the right ward and approached the nurses' station to ask whether his brother was settled in.

"This way," said a woman with a more attractive rack than any woman had any right to be having that early in the day, "He's only just come down from ICU. He's on some pretty heavy duty meds, so don't be surprised if he doesn't make a lot of sense."

"Well, most days, he don't make a lot of sense anyway," Dean shrugged, the Killer Smile sliding onto his face out of sheer habit.

His brother was sharing a room with an elderly man whose interaction with the world at large seemed to consist only of intermittent snores. Sam was dozing, but roused and managed a small groggy smile for his brother as Dean came in with the nurse.

"Deeeeeeean!" he went. "You found Deeeeean!"

"He found you, Sam," the nurse smiled.

"He's my biiiiiiiiig brother," sighed Sam sleepily, "And he's awesome!"

"Well, somebody's gotta look out for your sorry ass," grinned Dean, taking a seat.

"He looks after me," Sam told the nurse. "He makes my breakfast."

"He, uh, gets a bit loopy on painkillers," explained Dean.

"He made me go to the dentist," Sam pouted.

"Oh, really?" the nurse cocked an amused eyebrow. "Who would've guessed?"

"He won't let me take my soccer ball outside after dark," Sam humphed in a thwarted voice.

"Oh, what a mean big brother," tutted the nurse, stifling a smile.

"He's a jerk," muttered Sam.

"You're welcome," griped Dean.

"I love my big jerk!" Sam suddenly swung to point due Dean once more. "He saved me!"

"Did he?" the nurse humoured him, checking his IV line.

"Uh-huh," confirmed Sam. "He's, like, Batman. Only, he doesn't ride a bat."

"The SPCA will be pleased to know that," she commented.

Sam turned his head a little, and smiled as if seeing Dean for the first time. "Hi Dean."

"Hi yourself, Mr Chatty," Dean rolled his eyes. "How you doin'?"

Sam's face furrowed into a frown as he appeared to consider the question carefully. "Ow?" he offered tentatively.

"I can imagine," Dean snorted, "Can I stay with him?" he asked the nurse.

"Sure," she said, "Let him sleep if he dozes off again."

"Will do," he confirmed.

"He wants to look at your boobies!" declared Sam, with a giggle. "He looks at girls' boobies!"

"It's a man thing," she agreed serenely.

"Boobies, boobies, Deanie looks at boobies!" sang Sam.

"Kill me now," sighed Dean.

"He can undo a bra with one hand," Sam informed her.

"What a talented individual," she smiled.

"Once, he made me wear one so he could demonstrate…"

"But not before I kill him," growled Dean.

"And I saw him do it with Julia Douglas, when he was supposed to be doin' his homework…"

"Slowly," Dean added.

"Mr Kilmister, I hear worse than that every day," she laughed, "And this is nothing. You wait until he starts about the werewolves."

"Werewolves?" echoed Dean, eyebrows heading for his hairline.

"Oh yeah," she chuckled. "Great big hairy werewolves…"

"With no clothes on!" chirped Sam helpfully.

"I blame those Twilight books," Dean yelped hurriedly. "He's a huge devotee of those. He's practically stalked that Meyer woman for years – he goes to book signings all over the place."

"Really?" she said doubtfully.

"Oh, totally," Dean nodded vigorously, "He's her number one fan! Once, he started hyperventilating in excitement; a paramedic gave him a paper bag to breathe into, and he got her to sign it, and he had it framed. Sometimes, I find him kneeling in front of it, just staring at it, with this smile on his face as if he's experienced Nirvana…" he turned worried eyes to her. "Sometimes, I worry about what it's doin' to his brain."

"Well, I wouldn't worry too much," she reassured him, "My niece has read them; they're just badly-written fantasy, and I doubt they could inspire anybody to do anything except whine helplessly, or maybe run around with no shirt on…"

"Deeeeeeeeean," Sam pouted, "My arm huuuuuuurts…"

"If he starts tearin' his gown off, I want him tested for Twilitis," sighed Dean. She laughed, and left them alone.

"Hey, Sam," Dean put a hand on his brother's good arm, being careful not to make contact with his silver ring, and lowered his voice. "Listen, buddy, I know you're brain is swimmin' in an ocean of the good stuff, but you can't go tellin' anybody about Ronnie and Andrew, okay?"

Sam looked confused for a moment. "What about Ronnie?" he asked.

"That she's a werewolf!" Dean hissed.

"Oh." Sam continued to look bemused. "I thought she was an Australian."

"Oh, God," moaned Dean, "Look, don't tell anybody about the Big Hairy Secret. It's important…"

"I know what kills Australians," Sam announced sunnily. "Silver ammo."

"Well, uh, technically, yeah, it would…"

"And weak beer. And South African cricket players."

"That's… really good to know," nodded Dean. "But listen, Sam, this is important. You cannot, cannot tell anybody about Ronnie, okay?"

Sam blinked in a cross-eyed fashion at his brother. " 'Kay," he agreed. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Who's Ronnie?"

"I give up…"

He stayed with Sam as his baby brother mostly dozed, rousing occasionally to make some observation about Dean's wonderfulness or complain grumpily about some appointment Dean had made him keep when they were kids. Dean just agreed with everything he said – "Yup, I be dat asshole".

Dean found himself dozing as well; the crash from the previous twenty-four hours came back to hit him hard. He did wake up for the registrar doing her rounds to remark on his brother's remarkable progress, given his injuries, then sat humouring Sam and his baby brother's drug-induced ramblings until a nurse came in to tell him that visiting hours were over.

"Well, I gotta go, bro," he told Sam, who was in the process of falling asleep again, "I'll be back to see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," beamed Sam. "And don't worry, I won't tell _anybody_," he frowned at the nurse, "About the Australians."

"Good man," Dean patted his brother on the shoulder, then left.

He was leaving the hospital when his cell chirped with a message.

**My mate returns successful from the hunt, he has brought down prey, and is bringing food to the den. Our pack will gorge tonight.**

Yawning, Dean sent back:

**WTF?**

The reply was:

**Andrew's twenty minutes out with pizza. Haul arse, Winchester.**

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Jimi came running out through the front door of Casa Jaeger as soon as he heard the Impala rumble into the drive, and gave his Alpha an enthusiastic greeting.

"He's been worried about both of you," Ronnie translated as they shared the bounty of Andrew's hunt, tearing the helpless pizzas limb from limb. "He knows how close his Second came to… well…"

"So, how is he?" asked Andrew through a mouthful of prey, surreptitiously slipping a piece of crust to Jimi's sister Joni.

"Well, from the chin down, he's doin' good," Dean answered. "Real good, according to the white coats. Moved him out of ICU this morning. He's on the mend, and gonna make a full recovery."

"And from the chin up?" pressed Ronnie.

"He's tellin' the world about what an awesome pervert I am, but he promised not to let on about the secret," Dean sighed.

"The secret?"

"The fact that you're Australian."

"Ah," said Ronnie, in an understanding tone that indicated that she didn't understand at all. "Well… quite."

"And the Big Hairy Secret?" prompted Andrew.

Dean seemed to droop. "Yeah," he said finally, "It worked. My baby brother is officially a werewolf." He ran a hand over his face. "Fuck knows what Dad would've said about this…"

"He's alive," Andrew growled, "He's alive, and mending, and any father who'd take you to task over that would be an asshole."

"Amen," Ronnie said judiciously, "So don't you dare sit here and beat yourself up for saving your brother."

Dean found a small smile. "Okay."

"Good," humphed Ronnie, "Because if you actually do need beating up, I want to be the one to do it."

"Cow."

"So," Andrew went on, "Does Sam know that he's now, uh… Australian?"

"No," Dean confessed, "He seems to remember that you were there, but that's it. He has no idea about it. Although, the way his is at the moment, you could probably tell him that he was actually an alien named Bruce from The Planet Of The Zombie Kangaroos, and he'd believe you. Or at least, he'd promise not to tell the nurses about it, whilst doin' exactly that."

"It might be better to wait until he's discharged," Ronnie suggested, standing up and heading for the bench. "You two can hole up here while he finishes healing, and until Bobby works up the details of the countercurse."

"Why don't we just plan to set fire to that wendigo when we come to it," said Andrew firmly, reaching for a roll of garlic bread. "Tell him when he's feeling better."

"Good thinking," agreed Ronnie. "So, no angsting allowed over dinner. It's not good for the digestion. Plus, it makes you look like you have wind, or something."

"Gee, thanks," Dean rolled his eyes.

"Don't take that tone with me, mister," she turned around again, brandishing a spatula, "Or there won't be any pie for you."

"There's pie?" Dean's demeanour suddenly improved.

"Only of you placate the pie Nazi," she intoned ominously. "No angsting, Winchester, I mean it. Sam is gunna need you to be his awesome big brother, and you can't do that if you're moping around in a cloud of self-loathing. Well, no more than usual, anyway."

"Well, I aint makin' any promises," Dean replied, "But I can keep the angsting under control until after pie."

"Close enough," she grunted, taking the object of veneration out of the oven. "Andrew, stop feeding Joni crusts. I can hear her licking her chops."

"Awww, but she loves Meat Lovers..."

"She loves rolling in dead skunk, too, but that doesn't mean she should be allowed to."

"Talk about a damned Nazi..."

"No pie for you!"

* * *

There you are, drugloopy!Sam reverts to all of about five years old once more, for your reading pleasure. How will Dean explain to him that he's now Australian? Feed Mavgang reviews, to help inspire shim to dictate, because Reviews are the Hilarious Racing Frogs At The Booze-Up Of Life!


	4. Chapter 4

The next your school/sports club/church/childcare centre/chess club/kindergarten/belly dance troupe/knitting circle/obedience club/cell block wants to do a fundraiser, I expect you all to go out and make converts to the noble and ancient pastime of plywood frog racing, taking this largely forgotten but immensely rewarding sport to the rest of the world.

Meanwhile, Mavgang has been nibbling on my ears again - s/he's looking quite fat and contented, what with being fed so many reviews, and a fat bunny is usually a talkative bunny (curse them...)

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Dean was back at the hospital the next day, smiling at the same nurse with a great rack. Sam was more awake, and coherent, and Dean let out an internal breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding: his baby brother really was going to be all right.

"Thought you'd be around here somewhere, jerk," Sam greeted him.

"Somebody's gotta keep a check on your ass, bitch," Dean shot back, smirking as relief flooded through him. "And check out the nurses, natch. Did you see the rack on her?"

"That 'her' is Kimberly," Sam corrected him, "And she's offered to wash my hair later, if I'm feeling up to it."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Nice work, bro," he conceded, taking a seat, "But before you go frolicking with the nursing staff, how ya doin'? Really."

"Dunno how much frolicking I'll be up for," Sam winced, and shifted slightly. "I feel like I've been hit by a truck. No, scratch that, I feel like I've been hit by a train. With teeth." He glanced down at his arm, and Dean tried to squelch the stab of guilt. "Asshole things got me good. One of the staff saw this one, and asked if I'd been bitten by a bear."

"I told 'em it was a feral dog attack," Dean informed him, "But the doc says you're doin' really well."

"That's what they told me," Sam considered shrugging, but clearly thought better of it. "So, when can you break me out?"

"Hey, let's just see what the responsible adults say," Dean warned. "You got torn up, Sam, you aint goin' anywhere until they say you're fit to leave."

"Why is it that whenever it's you, you're willing to crawl, dragging broken legs, to a desk to get an AMA form, but when it's me, I gotta stay?" demanded Sam.

"Because I'm your big brother and I say so," stated Dean firmly. "So, suck it up."

"I'm sucking, I'm sucking," sighed Sam, resigned. "Can you bring me my laptop?"

"Not until the doc says it's okay," Dean frowned.

"Well, apparently, it's all right for me to have _that_." Sam spoke in a tone that people usually reserve for describing chunks of dog crap stuck under their shoes as he gestured clumsily towards a well-used paperback on the tray table by his bed. "Kimberly brought it in for me."

Dean cocked his head to see the cover. "_Waxing Crescent_," he read, "Oh, hey, it's that Twilight woman's next foray into sexless tween-lit!"

"Is there a reason that a nurse thinks I'm a fan of her writing?" asked Sam, with a definite Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted)."

"Look, I had to cover for you babblin' about big hairy werewolves," growled Dean. "With no clothes on. Bein' a Twihard groupie seemed the best explanation at the time." He turned the book over. "Oh, hey, I think this one's got puppies..."

"Deeeeeeean," Sam actually whined.

"Dean me no Deans," sniffed Dean, "You concentrate on healin' up. Can you reach your remote? Good. So, if you don't wanna read the story of... 'The dynamics of the La Push pack change irrevocably when, out of nowhere, a female with a dark pelt and a dark past crosses their territory'. You want me to read to you?"

"You read a single sentence outta that book, and I will end you," growled Sam. "If I have to strangle you with my IV line, or crush your skull with a the frigging pole, I will end you."

"Well then, you just lie here, basking in my awesomeness," grinned Dean, "Or get yourself a steady diet of Oprah, daytime soaps and infomercials."

"Actually, I want a diet of something to eat," complained Sam. "I wonder if they're planning to feed me any time before the end of the year? I mean, starving patients, that's gonna land somebody in trouble, right?"

Shaking his head in disbelief, Dean chuckled. "I'll go check with the nurses," he said, "If you're allowed, I'll go..."

"Breakfast!" said a cheerful voice behind them.

A matronly lady wearing a hairnet, an apron and a shade of lipstick that was probably called 'Turbo Slut' came bustling into the room with a tray. "Mr Olafsson!" she trilled loudly at Sam's roommate, "Mr Olafsson, breakfast!"

The elderly man stretched in his sleep, yawned, rolled over, and farted musically.

"I'll just leave it on your tray, Mr Olafsson," the volunteer shouted.

"Hey, can we get some catering for the guy here who's actually awake?" asked Dean.

"Oh, just let me check..." she retreated to the corridor, conferred with her list and returned with a tray. "Mr Kilmister!" she enthused, like a Twilight fan meeting a talentless actor with terrible hair or improbable abs, "Welcome to Ward 3-North! You're allowed a light breakfast, if you can manage it."

Dean took the tray from her, and peered at the assembled excuses for food. "Well, at least it's the kind of stuff you like," he shrugged.

"Well, don't just stand there," ordered Sam, fumbling at the bed controls, "Help me get a bit more upright so I can eat!"

When he was satisfied that Sam wasn't going to pass out, Dean wiggled the tray to put it in front of his brother. "Okay, we got a thimbleful of oatmeal, and a piece of toast, with what could be honey or could be a small helping of squashed bees, and a sixty-fourth of a cup of delicious tinned pears..."

Hampered by one arm out of action and the other having an IV cannula in it, Sam nonetheless displayed surprising dexterity as he shovelled everything on the tray into the oatmeal bowl, spooned it down in about four mouthfuls, then burped heartily.

"Okaaaaay," went Dean carefully, "Well, you wanna eat, that's gotta be a good sign. You want me to open the juice for you?"

"What I really want," Sam replied, "Is for you to go get me some actual food for breakfast."

Dean chuckled. "Well, I saw one of those drippy-hippy juice places yesterday, so I guess I could go for a stroll and get you a low-fat, low-taste, low-enjoyment smoothie, or maybe some yoghurt..."

Sam's stomach growled long, loud and demandingly. "Fuck yoghurt," griped Sam, "Get me something with plenty of bacon."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ****...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"And then, he said 'Get me something with plenty of bacon'," Dean related over a large veal schnitzel at dinner, "Which is just weird."

"What's weird?" asked Andrew, coming in.

"Sam ate a bacon cheeseburger," Ronnie told him, putting a plate in front of her husband.

"What's so weird about eating a bacon cheeseburger?" Andrew wanted to know.

"For breakfast?" Dean replied.

"Nothing wrong with a bacon cheeseburger for breakfast," shrugged Andrew, shovelling a large piece of schnitzel into his mouth. "It's got all the major food groups in it: grease, meat, cholesterol, pig and yummy."

"All you need to add is a beer for trace elements, and you got a complete meal," agreed Ronnie.

"This is Sam we're talking about," Dean reminded him, "My vegiesaurus little brother."

"He's not a vegiesaurus for the time being," Ronnie stated, "For now, he's a carnivore, by adoption. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not worried about that," Dean waved a hand, "So, I go get the bacon cheeseburger, right, and I come back with the bacon cheeseburger, and I put the bacon cheeseburger in front of my brother, and he looks up at me, and says, dude, where are the onion rings?"

"He's got a point," Andrew waved his fork, "A bacon cheeseburger is rendered even more awesome by onion rings."

"So I spent most of the day on catering runs," Dean griped, "Then hiding the evidence. He's supposed to be on 'light meals'."

"For a newly turned werewolf, a bacon cheeseburger is a light meal," Ronnie pointed out.

"Especially if some idiot forgot the onion rings," added Andrew. Ronnie thwacked his arm.

"Look, it's perfectly normal," Ronnie reassured him, "His body is just getting ready for his first shapeshift. Everything has to get ready to change for the first time."

"Great," Dean griped, stabbing a large piece of meat and biting into it in a way that would be fairly convincing if he was trying to give the impression that he was a newly turned werewolf. "My little brother is goin' through werewolf puberty. Just great."

"Well, he will start finding that he's growing hair in funny places," Andrew conceded.

"Please tell me there aren't any raging hormonal storms involved," Dean pleaded unto a universe that had shown many times that it really didn't give a rat's arse, "The man-periods nearly killed me first time around. Come to think of it, they can still be pretty horrendous..."

"Well, the good news is, he won't spend hours crying into his pillow, writing appalling poetry, moaning about how much he hates himself and listening to music played by children wearing too much eyeliner," Ronnie informed him. "The whole wolf form gig is actually, uh, well, if I'm honest it's pretty cool."

"What's the bad news?" asked Dean, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

"Well, instead of angst, confusion, social awkwardness and body dysmorphia, you're more likely to get uncontrollable rage, overwhelming bloodlust and every instinct telling you to go out and kill someone to eat," replied Andrew. "Although if you want to get technical, that might count as social awkwardness."

"You know, a lot of my teenage years were like that before I was bitten," mused Ronnie thoughtfully, "Although if you'd gone to school with the bunch of morons I did, you'd probably understand why..."

"Oh, just peachy," sighed Dean, dropping his head into his hands. "I could almost wish for the man-periods again. Buyin' him a packet of tampons to make the point isn't gonna work this time, is it?"

"No," agreed Andrew. He paused. "Did it work last time?"

"Honestly? Let's just say I was the one who actually ended up doing the bleeding…"

"It may not come to that," Ronnie said, spearing a potato, "Bobby's been doing some research into This Sort Of Thing. Sam wasn't attacked by a feral wolf with no self-awareness; he was turned by one with control of the shapeshift."

"Does that make a difference?" queried Dean.

"He thinks it might," she went on. "Old North werewolves rarely exist as extended packs anymore; you get the odd small family group, but an extended clan, a small village, well, Hunters have killed off too many. It just doesn't happen. But if you have an individual adopted into a pack, by wolves with control, well, that may extend to them, too."

Dean paused. "Are you sayin' that Sam will be, uh, transformed as a werewolf, with control over the shapeshift?"

Andrew shrugged. "I didn't attack him as prey, or rival. I was self-aware, and knew exactly what I was doing, and why. Bobby thinks it could make a difference."

"There's just so much we don't know," Ronnie sighed. "If worst comes to worst and he has to go through a full moon, we can put him in the basement, and stay with him, make sure he doesn't hurt himself."

Dean stared miserably at his plate. "Lookin' after Sam is supposed to be my job," he mumbled.

Ronnie shook her head. "You already have, you bozo," she chided him. "And you will. Now, what did I say yesterday about angst at the dinner table?"

"It upsets the pie Nazi?" recalled Dean.

"Well, tonight it's the peach cobbler Nazi," she told him, "But the principle is the same. Don't make me get the spatula."

"Ooooh, the spatula; will you wear leather?"

"Weirdo."

It was a very good peach cobbler, even if it wasn't pie, and Dean eyed off a second helping.

"I'll keep it warm in the oven for you," said Ronnie, as she wrapped some leftover schnitzels and trimmings and scooped some cobbler into a container. "For when you get back."

"What?" he blinked at her. "Where am I goin'?"

She looked up at the clock. "Well, unless I miss my guess, it's about now that..."

Dean's cell buzzed with a message. It was short, and to the point.

**I'm hungry**

"Sonofabitch," he muttered, as Ronnie pressed the food into his hands.

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Fetching You Onion Rings From The Deep Fryer Of Life!


	5. Chapter 5

Ermagerd, you are so generous with the reviews! Gooooooooooooo bunny!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

The surgeon and doctor who'd attended Sam pronounced themselves amazed at the speed with which he healed up, giving him an excellent prognosis and anticipating a full recovery.

"Well young man, I wish I knew your secret," joked one of the doctors, "Whatever you're taking, I want some for me, let alone my other patients."

"We've always recovered from injuries quickly," Dean told him. "It's just good genes. And bacon cheeseburgers," he added under his breath as Sam elbowed him viciously.

After a week, Sam was pronounced fit to be discharged.

"Your chariot awaits, sir," Dean indicated the wheelchair, "You ready to blow this joint?"

"Totally," complained Sam, as he waved goodbye to the nursing staff, "The food in this place sucks."

"I'm surprised you even noticed it," Dean told him, pushing the wheelchair towards the elevators, "Considering the amount of time I spent on catering runs. I guess the average patient-sized serving doesn't take into account that they might get a Sasquatch admitted sometime."

"Jerk."

Jimi had accompanied Dean for a ride in the car, and gave Sam an enthusiastic greeting, whining and wagging his tail so hard his whole back end wiggled.

"Hey, fella!" Sam smiled and patted the big happy face, "It's good to see you too!"

"He was worried about ya," Dean said, helping Sam into shotgun then putting Jimi in the back, where the happy wiggle-dancing continued.

"Did Ronnie tell you that?" asked Sam, carefully reaching back to pat the dog again. Jimi once more went into paroxysms of delight. "Wow, he is glad to see me!"

"He's just relieved," Dean remarked nonchalantly. "He'll be back to tryin' to eat your lunch for you in no time at all."

"Well, it's good to be out," Sam sighed, letting his head rest against the window as Dean eased the Impala out of the hospital parking lot.

They weren't thirty seconds down the road when Sam suddenly opened his eyes and chirped "Oh, hey, drive through! Let's get wings!"

"Wings?" repeated Dean.

"Yeah," Sam enthused, "I'm kinda hungry."

"You only had breakfast an hour ago!" Dean reminded him. "With onion rings."

"Deeeeeean," Sam whined, "I'm hungryyyyyyy."

"What is this, are you pregnant or something?" Dean rolled his eyes.

"It must be from healing up," Sam shrugged. "Jimi likes wings too! Don't you, boy? You want wings, huh, wings?"

In the back seat, Jimi began to bark happily at the mention of the w-word.

"Great, now the dog and the bitch are double-teaming me," sighed Dean, pulling into the drive through.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Back at Schloss Jaeger, they went through the ritual of one brother anxiously shepherding the wounded other one out of the car, with Jimi hovering close on the other side. Ronnie and Joni were at the door to meet them.

"Gday Sam," she smiled, "Good to see you..."

He paused, smiled, and leaned in to sniff at her hair.

"...Up and about," she went on as if nothing unusual had happened.

He suddenly jumped back, as if he'd been stung, and his face turned red.

"Uh, I, er," he stuttered. "I... don't know why I did that..."

"It's that bacon-scented shampoo she uses," said Dean, chivvying his brother inside.

"And cocoa bean conditioner," Ronnie added, "Er, Sam, on your face," she waved at her own face vaguely. "Has Dean been rubbing your face in something? Only, you look like a kindergartener who's been eating the paint."

"Huh?" Sam wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Oh, we had wings on the way," he explained. "It's just sauce. I must've missed some." He let his hand fall back to his side, where Jimi and Joni sniffed eagerly at it, and competed to lick his fingers.

"Given the way he ate 'em, I think some of 'em are currently in his stomach without even teethmarks in 'em," commented Dean.

"Well, if the convalescent would care to come inside, he can set himself up in the living room," she bowed elaborately and held the door open. "And if he asks nicely, there may be some triple-choc bikkies come out of the oven quite recently."

"Yeah?" Sam's face lit up. "Awesome!" HIs expression became more serious. "Oh, hey, I owe you guys a thank-you. Dean told me what you did."

Ronnie's face was as carefully blank as Dean's. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Sam gave her a smile of gratitude. "If you and Andrew hadn't come to get us back to the car, I probably wouldn't have made it."

"Well, you'd be amazed at how quickly he can think if his baby brother is in peril," she smiled back. "You'll get the bill later. Taxi fees, plus beer; Andrew got stuck again."

"Put it on our tab," trilled Dean in his best For-Fuck's-Sake-Change-The-Subject tone.

"Yes, bwana. Now, you," she bent a stern eye on Sam, "You're still recuperating. Living room. Sit. Stay."

"Come on, Sam," Dean wheedled as he herded his brother into the living room. "Do what she says – she's the woman who has the cookies, and the password for the wifi."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam spent the day dozing on the couch, with Jimi and Joni hovering protectively, or pecking at his laptop, while Ronnie and Dean kept the snacks coming.

"I can't believe how hungry I am," he commented with a mouthful of steak sandwich.

"Well, you've got a lot of healing to do," Ronnie told him, "That's a hell of a carcass to repair you're driving around there. What are you doing?"

"Just checking," he said, looking at the laptop screen, "Dean, are you sure that we got both those Black Dogs?"

"Andrew and I went back and did a sweep of the area," Ronnie told him. "The two you ganked were the only ones there. Not a whiff for miles."

"Good." Sam leaned back, and closed his eyes.

"You okay, bro?" asked Dean immediately.

"Yeah," sighed Sam, "Just tired. And a bit sore." He flexed his arm, looking at the fading bite mark. "Damn, that thing was huge. One of the docs wanted to know what the hell kind of dog could leave a bite like that."

"An angry one," Ronnie said firmly, "A Black Dog can tear a bloke apart in under a minute; you're lucky you had your brother, and Jimi, with you."

"Yeah," Sam smiled at Dean, then reached to pat Jimi. "What can go wrong when you guys have my back? Anyway, if we're sure they're dealt with, I think I might've found us a case..."

"Whoa there, big fella," Ronnie interrupted, "You are not going anywhere yet, not until you've had some time to finish healing up."

"She's right, Sam," Dean added his voice, "You gotta be properly back in the game before we get back on the road."

"Yeah, well, I can do research while I heal up," Sam protested.

"Provided you get adequate rest while you're doing it," Ronnie said. "You should probably put the laptop away."

"Gee whiz, Mom," Sam rolled his eyes, "Aren't I allowed to read at the table?"

"No," she sniffed. "It would probably do you good to go and lie down. Maybe have a nap before dinner."

"A... did you just say a nap?" demanded Sam incredulously. "Look, Ronnie, I know you mean well, but..."

She turned back to him, her top lip curled, and growled.

Sam's mouth shut with a snap.

Ronnie smiled at him. "Good. Now, should I put some tater tots in the oven for afterwards?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

After lunch, Sam did go and lie down; Jimi climbed onto the bed beside him, doing furry hot water bottle duty, and Joni took up a position on the floor, relaxed but watchful.

"That was... amazing," said Dean vaguely, as they cleaned up in the kitchen later. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Well, they are quite moreish," Ronnie shrugged. "I could eat 'em by the bucketload as a kid, well before I was bitten."

"I don't think he bothered to chew most of 'em," Dean went on. "I wonder if there's any world record been set for number of tater tots consumed in ten minutes?"

"Probably," Ronnie shrugged. "I think you should tell him."

"What?" Dean gave her a panicked look. "I can't!"

"He's smart, Dean," she reminded him, "He will eventually figure it out."

"Well, you gotta stop growling at him," humphed Dean, drying a plate. "Or that'll tip him off. What's with that, anyway?"

"I am alpha female of this pack," she said smugly. "He is junior in rank to me. He'll do what he's told."

Dean gave her a calculating look. "Could you teach me to do that?"

"Only if I bite you next full moon. Seriously, you gotta tell him."

"Tell him what?" said a sleepy voice behind them.

"That we're out of tater tots," Ronnie answered smoothly. "I thought we had another packet, but I was wrong."

"Damn," sighed Sam, heading for the refrigerator. "Can I have some of that schnitzel?"

"Knock yourself out," Ronnie told him. "Here, I'll get you a plate."

"It's okay, I don't need a plate, I'll just..."

_grrrrrrrrrrrrr_

"Uh... thanks."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Andrew returned in the evening, accompanied by two large buckets of take-out chicken.

"Aha, the walking wounded is here!" he greeted Sam.

"Not doin' a lot of walking," Sam replied, "I'm basically confined to the sofa."

"Well, you still got healing up to do," Andrew nodded judiciously. "But dinner will help with that. Food makes everything seem better."

"Especially if there's pie afterwards," Dean gave Ronnie his most winning smile.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm on it, I'm on it," she grumbled, "I've got some cherry filling in the fridge, will that do?"

"Will you do the lattice thing on top?" Dean fluttered his eyelashes.

"Will there be anything else, Your Lordship?" she bobbed a quick curtsey.

"Make me a special one with my name on it," he beamed.

"Cheeky bastard," she growled, heading for the kitchen.

"It's really good of you to let us stay here," Sam told Andrew.

"Mein Haus ist dein Haus", shrugged Andrew. "Jimi is Joni's brother, which makes you practically family by canine understanding. Hey, Dean, you okay?"

"I'm fine," wheezed Dean around the mouthful of beer he'd choked on.

They ate in the living room, and Dean couldn't help but notice that Sam didn't even remark upon the absence of even some coleslaw to go with the chicken.

"So, once all the stitches come out, I can pretty much get back on the road," Sam related, gesturing with a wing before biting into it.

"Well, there's no need to rush," cautioned Ronnie, reaching for another piece, "You don't wanna go off half-cocked, and find yourself up shit creek and not firing on both banks." She peered down at Jimi, who was giving her the Big Brown Eyes treatment. "Bugger off, you," she growled.

"You're so mean," Andrew griped, dropping half a wing on the floor for Joni. Jimi immediately switched his focus, lifting a paw and dialling up the pathos-ometer.

"And they've worked out who the soft touch is," she rolled her eyes.

"Those in my den eat at my sufferance, because I am Alpha," sniffed Andrew with wounded dignity. "Oh, hey, Dean, something go down the wrong way?"

"I'm good," gasped Dean.

"He's probably just feeling faint for lack of pie," suggested Ronnie, getting up. "You want cream with yours, Dean?"

"You know just how to turn me on," he simpered at her. She thwacked him on the arm, and headed for the kitchen.

Dean turned back to the table. "Wow, I can't believe we got through all that…" his voice trailed off.

They had gotten through almost all the chicken. Except one piece, a large juicy, succulent piece of breast meat, sitting in the middle of the plate.

Andrew and Sam reached for it at the same time.

They both froze. Their eyes met across the table. And then, Andrew did The Stare.

Dean has seen The Stare before. He was familiar with The Stare. He'd seen it plenty of times: his father had used it, Bobby still used it, and he'd seen Jimi use it. Hell, he'd used it himself on numerous occasions, whether it was on a fugly, across a pool table, on some punk getting too close to his Baby or, on one memorable occasion, a swan that was getting too close to his little brother's picnic lunch (in the end, Dean was technically the winner, via two falls and a submission)

The Stare was not an angry face. It did not bare its teeth, it did not curl its lip. It did not frown, it did not snarl. It did not say a thing. It did not make a sound. It was a bland and unblinking assertion, an expression that explained in a single look that the starer was, simply, the better man (or dog. Or swan) in every possible way, and that the staree should not even bother to try to make anything of it, because the result was already a foregone conclusion, and the staree _would _come off second best.

For a moment, Sam's face registered surprise.

But he didn't break eye contact.

Dean felt his own eyes start to water in sympathy, and wondered whether a paper napkin tossed between them would burst into flames.

Moving carefully and deliberately, Andrew took hold of the piece of chicken. He tore it in half, and offered one of the pieces to Sam.

Moving just as slowly, Sam accepted it.

They both leaned back at the same time, then sat watching each other eat. The Staring ratcheted down a couple of notches.

Dean let out his breath and reached for his beer as Ronnie came back from the kitchen. "What are you two doing?" she asked, "Auditioning for some sort of food porn film?"

Both Andrew and Sam jumped slightly, as if they'd been startled out of deep concentration.

"Hmm? What?" Andrew finished the last of his chicken.

"We were just finishing the chicken," supplied Sam, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Is dessert ready?"

"If you two have finished having eye-sex," she replied, as both Andrew and Sam made noises of disgust. "Give me a hand, Andrew, and we'll dish up pie."

"All right! Pie!" chirped Dean, in relief as much as to change the subject, "Did I get one specially for me?"

"As a matter of fact, you did," Ronnie replied pleasantly.

She'd made individual pies, latticed as requested, with Martha Stewart-esque little pastry decals on each one. Sam's had a book, Andrew's had a wrench, Her own had a little dog, and Dean's was not just decorated, but the graphics were enhanced with a well-deployed splodge of cream...

"Jesus _Christ_, how am I supposed to eat _that?!_"

"With a spoon, like everybody else... or with your hands, like Sam, that works too..."

"I can't eat_ this_, you asshole!"

"Well, it was your idea to decorate them..."

"I said I wanted one with my name on it! And I was _kidding_, Ronnie! It was a joke!"

"Well, take this as a joke, too. It certainly made me want to laugh out loud."

"Ronnie, I _cannot_ eat a pie with a pastry dick baked on it!"

"See how it puffed up in the oven? I thought you'd be flattered."

"Well, I'm not! I'm not eating dick, Ronnie, not even if it's pastry."

"Here, cover it up, then – more cream, dear?"

"I hate you so much."

* * *

Send reviews, because Reviews are The Personalised Pie At The Dinner Table Of Life!*

If you absolutely must, you may have eye sex with the Winchester/Werewolf Of Your Choice.


	6. Chapter 6

Ah, St Valentine's Day, because nothing evokes the ideal of romantic love like commemorating someone who was beaten with clubs, then stones, then beheaded.

As to what pair-bonded werewolves might do on St V's Day, I suspect Ronnie isn't the really romantic type. They probably went to that steakhouse that does the 72oz bathmat steak, and she gave Andrew a card that said;

Roses are red,  
Violets are blue,  
St Valentine's Day is a cynical marketing exercise,  
Hand over the fucking chocolates.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

"I'm tellin' ya, Bobby, it's... weird," Dean complained into his cell. "Sam's not just eating meat, he's, well, there's no other word for it, he's wolfing it down at every meal. He wanted bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast!"

"Aint nothin' wrong with bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast," Bobby declared happily.

"That's what Andrew and Ronnie say," Dean confirmed, "So, Ronnie made us bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast."

"So, what's the problem?" asked Bobby.

"He demanded onion rings as well."

"Oh dear – what happened?"

"She growled at him."

"Ronnie growls at everybody..."

"I swear, I saw his ears droop. And last night was the second time Sam and Andrew had a staring match over the last piece of dinner."

"Oh. Oh." There was a silence. "So, er, what happened?"

"Well, Andrew takes it, tears it in half, and gives some to Sam, while Ronnie pretends not to notice. Then she dishes up dessert."

"Well, that's actually a good sign of a healthy pack dynamic," Bobby told him, "The Alpha animal is reinforcing his position, but makin' it clear that the younger one is accepted..."

"I don't think they even realise they're doin' it," Dean said.

There was a deep sigh at the other end of the line. "Son, you gotta tell your brother what you did," he stated firmly, "He deserves to know. He needs to know. It aint fair on him."

"I know, but... Bobby, what if... what if he hates me for it?" The anguish in Dean's voice was clear.

"Dean, if you _don't _tell him, he'll be even more hurt and angry," Bobby warned. "If you two idjits haven't figured out by now that keepin' secrets like this from each other always leads to a world of pain, then there aint no hope for ya. You're his brother, you did it to save him, and we can undo it. It's that simple."

"Are you sure it can be undone?" Worry leaked into Dean's voice.

"Absolutely," Bobby was reassuringly confident. "This aint your usual werewolf bite, where a wolf attacks to kill. And we got the help of the one that bit him, so we can get what we need for the countercurse, a tooth and a claw and a whisker. I'm still workin' on the details, but this can be undone." There was another pause. "That is, if he wants to undo it."

"Whaddya mean, if he wants to?" snapped Dean. "Of course he'll want to! He's a Hunter, Bobby, not a damned fugly!"

"As I recall, so is Ronnie," Bobby went on calmly. "And Andrew aint no slouch, either, provided nobody threatens to strangle a kitten if he doesn't stand down because that'd make him back off right away. So's Ian – remember Ronnie's Huntin' buddy, 'Dr Dracula'?. And his young sidekick Ryan is comin' along just fine; turns out the kid has an aptitude."

"But that's... different," Dean almost yelped, "He was bleedin' out, Bobby, he was gonna die! It was to save his life!"

"And it worked," Bobby replied. "Well done you. I'm just sayin', Sam needs to be in possession of all the facts. Once his is, he has as much say as you do in this. It's his body, his choice."

"His body, his choice?" repeated Dean. "What is this, you gonna burn your bra next?"

"Don't you take that tone with me, boy," Bobby growled, "What I'm sayin' is, if Sam decides to take this particular lemon that life has handed him and make hairy lemonade, you remember that he's all growed up now, and able to make his own decisions."

Dean let out a sigh, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I'm supposed to look after him," he almost moaned, "He's my brother, and I'm supposed to look after him."

"Well, he was fatally wounded, and thanks to you, right now he's still alive," Bobby pointed out, "So I'd say you're doin' a pretty good job. How is he, anyway? Physically?"

"Healing up," Dean said simply, "He's visibly improved every day. It's like, meat goes in, health comes out."

"Good," grunted Bobby. "Now, you go tell your brother."

"Yeah, you're right." Dean huffed in resignation. "Ronnie's cookin' a roast tonight. It'll barely fit in the oven. I dunno what I'm supposed to do if he and Andrew get into a fight over the bone; whack 'em with a rolled-up newspaper?"

"I don't think you'll have a problem there," Bobby chortled. "You have a good look at the pack dynamics next time. Andrew's a great big soft marshmallow who'd turn an ankle rather than stand on a mouse; but it's a marshmallow with a heart of steel. And Ronnie's solid iron all the way to the core; but that core is all gooey melted chocolate. I think it's why they make such a good pair."

"Deeeeean!" came Ronnie's voice from the kitchen, "You want to lick the bowl?"

"Speaking of chocolate, I gotta go," Dean brightened considerably, "Ronnie's cooking brownies, and I'm on QA detail."

"Well, don't let me delay ya," the eye-roll at Bobby's end was practically audible. "And if they're the ones with the walnuts, ask her to send me some."

Dean rang off, and headed for the kitchen. Trays of gloop sat waiting to be baked, as Ronnie poked more walnuts into one of them.

"That one," she pointed to a bowl which Dean fell upon with little noises of delight."

"Bobby says he wants you to send some of your brownies," he announced, through a mouthful of chocolatey goodness, "The ones with the walnuts. Mmmmmmmm, ohhhhhhh, yeah."

"We can do that," she nodded, "Will you try not to sound so pornoriffic while you're doing that?"

Dean just redoubled his efforts. "Ohhhhhh, yeah, that's so goooooood."

"I hate you," Ronnie mumbled. "What else did Bobby say?"

"That I gotta tell Sam that he's, you know, Australian," shrugged Dean, not to be deflated by any angst-ridden crisis while there was a bowl of brownie mix to be licked clean. "Oh, yeah, that's how I like it, just like that, mmmmmmmmmmm."

"He's right," Ronnie considered her work, giving a tray a final prod, "And you're disgusting."

"You should take it as a compliment," he said, turning on the sad puppy eyes. "Can I have the spatula?"

"Fuck you, Winchester," she smiled smugly, then stuck the spatula into her own mouth with evident enjoyment.

"Oh, God, do that again, you tease."

"You pervert."

"Hey, you're the one puttin' on the show."

"Did I mention I hate you?"

"Why do you hate him now?" asked Sam, wandering into the kitchen with Jimi and Joni at his sides.

"How long have you got?" Ronnie sniffed disdainfully.

"I'm just sittin' here enjoyin' the view," Dean grinned, "She's the one puttin' on the show. Go on, do it again – let's see a little tongue action this time."

"Why has nobody debarked you?" Ronnie wailed.

"Don't think I haven't considered it," muttered Sam, sitting down. "Oh, hey, brownie mix!" He took up the other bowl, and ran a finger around the inside. "This is good. Have you ever considered running a small business from home? You'd find a market for these, you got a definite talent."

"I've done a few batches at a local market," she confirmed, putting trays into the oven, "But mostly I'm busy enough, at the workshop, and I still cast silver ammo most Fridays. Those ones sold out really fast."

"I can see why," Sam hummed happily, scraping at the delicious mess.

When the bowls were licked completely clean – first by the Winchesters then by the dogs – Sam announced that he was going to do some more research on something he suspected was a case that required the attention of Hunters, and headed for the living room, the dogs shadowing him once more.

"Dean," Ronnie sighed, "You really have to tell him. Soon. Very soon. Like, yesterday soon."

"I know," Dean sighed, "I'm just not sure how to raise the subject."

"Well, you could start with this," she held out the empty bowl that Sam had licked out.

Dean looked at it in confusion. "I tell him by starting with chocolate brownie mix?"

"No – you tell him by pointing out that he just licked out a bowl that had been used to make the mixture for liver 'brownie' dog treats."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean spent the afternoon cleaning his Baby, the activity being a moving meditation for him when he wanted to think about something.

Sam was a werewolf. Sam didn't know he was a werewolf. At least, Sam's brain didn't know he was a werewolf; Sam's stomach seemed to have figured it out pretty quickly.

Sam was a werewolf because Dean had begged for it, to save his life. A desperate measure. A desperate temporary measure, as it turned out. Or maybe not. He'd assumed it would be temporary, because Sam would want to undo it as soon as possible.

Wouldn't he?

And if he didn't, would Dean have any right to object, since this was his fault to start with?

He was still waxing and wondering when Andrew got home.

"Hello, you gorgeous creature," he purred to the Impala.

"I could never be serious about a married man," Dean simpered, as the werewolf rolled his eyes.

"You really are a smartass," Andrew humphed, "So, have you told Sam about the, er, change of nationality yet?"

"No," Dean admitted, "But I think I gotta do it tonight. He licked out a bowl of brownie mix today."

"Well, Ronnie's brownies are pretty damned good."

"A bowl of liver brownie dog treat mix."

"Well, they have their merits also..."

"Oh, dude, that's gross!"

The joint of pork served up for dinner was enormous, with slabs of crackling, roasted potatoes and onion gravy.

"Got a 69 Mustang in the shop you might want a look at tomorrow," Andrew told Dean, "Boss 302. Most of it still original."

Dean looked like a little boy who'd just been given the keys to a candy store. "The 5 litre V8?" he breathed.

"The very same," Andrew grinned, "Although, she's had some work done. A thing of beauty."

Dean made a little noise that was part reverence, part prayer, and part lust.

"He comes in his pants at the table, I will blame you," sniped Ronnie, reaching for more meat. "More, Sam?"

"Please." he passed his plate over.

Dean suddenly refocussed on his baby brother. "I can't leave Sam by himself," he said firmly.

"Dean," Sam whined, "I'm not five years old! I don't need babysitting! Go look at the car!"

"No," Dean reiterated, "I'm stayin' here."

"Then I'll come with you," Sam shrugged.

"I got orders to meet," Ronnie said quietly, "I told Bobby I'd have ammo for him; I gotta cast tomorrow. He can't be there."

Sam let out a snort of amusement. "I think I can probably stay out of the way..."

"No," she growled, "No."

"Et tu, Ronnie," humphed Sam, "Why is everybody so worried?"

"We're just... concerned for you," mumbled Dean, stabbing a potato rather more viciously than was warranted, given the threat that the potato actually represented.

"Dean..."

"No," Ronnie repeated vehemently, "There's... fumes. It's not safe. He's not going."

"But..."

"Sam, no," Andrew rumbled quietly. "Ronnie says it's not safe."

"What the hell is goin' on?" demanded Sam, "And why the hell are you..." he paused, and looked at the werewolves watching him.

They weren't angry, he realised. They were worried. Genuinely worried for his wellbeing. In fact, the expression on Ronnie's face was remarkably evocative of the one that Rumsfeld had worn when her puppies first started to make excursions out of the whelping box. He relaxed, and smiled.

"Look, I'm really better," he told them, "I am! I'm healed up, my stitches are ready to come out, it's all good. What?" He watched the other three exchange looks. "What? What is it?"

Dean put down his fork, and turned tortured eyes on his baby brother. "Sam," he began, "When you were attacked by that Black Dog, you were badly injured."

"You're telling me," Sam chuckled, "I think I'll have some permanent scars from that one."

"I mean it, Sam," Dean said seriously, "You were torn up real bad. You were bleedin' out. You were dyin'. And I couldn't let that happen."

Sam smiled at him, looked confused. "And you didn't," he said, "You got help, you got me to Emergency. My big brother saved me. Again."

Dean ran a hand over his face. "Sam, there's more to it than that," he sighed, his eyes pleading for understanding. "You gotta understand, Sam, you were gonna die. And I couldn't...I did... something else." He took a gulping breath. "Sam, I did something else, to pull you back. I had to, to save you. I couldn't let you go, little brother."

Sam's face became a mask of horror. "Oh, fuck," he breathed, "You didn't... not... you... you didn't make a deal? Tell me you didn't make a deal..."

"Huh? No!" yelped Dean, "No! Absolutely not, Sammy! Never! Never again! I did not make a deal with a demon!"

Sam's brain had once been marinated in Pre-Law, and it jumped on the wording of the statement the way a journalist would pounce on 'I did not have sexual relations with that woman'. "So, you didn't make a deal with a _demon_? Then who _did _you make a deal with, Dean?"

"What?" Dean blinked. "Sam..."

"Oh, God, no," Sam moaned, "You made a deal with Chuck, didn't you?"

"Sam, I... _huh_?" Dean's eyes actually boggled.

"You idiot!" wailed Sam. "What was the deal? What did you trade for my life? Your car? No, not your car, it's still there. Your own life? What does he want to do with it? What does he have planned? Oh God, _what is he going to make you do, Dean?_"

"Sam, there is no deal with Chuck!" Dean interrupted, "I did not, I repeat, I did not do a deal with Chuck! He's just the writer, anyway!"

"Well, what then?" Sam's voice was shrill. "Not a demon, not Chuck, what... oh, no, no, no, not_ her..._"

"Sam, if you'll just let me explain..."

"You cannot explain this, Dean!" Sam shrieked, "You cannot explain this! I don't believe it! There is no explanation for this!"

"Er, what exactly is 'this'?" ventured Ronnie carefully.

Sam glared at his brother. "It's her!" he yelled, "He called her, and she's done some sort of spell, she's just the person who'd be willing to do anything to bring me back from the dead..."

"Who?" asked Andrew.

"Becky!" Sam warbled in distress. "My big brother has done some deal with Becky, in exchange for my life! What did you promise her, you moron? Whatever you promised her, it wasn't worth it! She's a freak, she's a weirdo, she's a monster, Dean, it wasn't worth whatever she wanted from you..."

"Sam," Dean tried again, "Can you just..."

"Or was it something," Sam swallowed and his face went white, "Was it something she wanted... from me?"

"Sam..."

"Oh, God, that's it, isn't it? She offered to save my life... in return for... me..."

"Sam..."

"What does she want?" Sam asked brokenly. "What does she want? Not a... a husband..."

"Sam..."

"I can't do this, I can't, I'm sorry, Dean, I cannot play House with Becky, even to stay alive..."

"Sam..."

"_I'd rather be dead that Becky's sex slave!" _Sam squeaked.

Andrew dropped his head into his hands. "Sam," he began calmly, "Under the circumstances, it's completely understandable that you feel strongly about the situation, but I think it might help if you just calm down a bit, and let your brother give you the details..."

Sam wasn't listening; Sam was in The Horror Zone. Sam had seen his future, and it was worse than anything Tumblr could offer. "I wonder if she'll want me to wear a collar," he giggled.

"Right now, I'd be happy with a gag," muttered Ronnie.

"And insist that I call her Mistress..."

"Sam," Dean made another heroic attempt, "If you could just hear me out, bro, just hear what I have to say..."

"And she'll take away all my shirts..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," snapped Andrew, standing up. He grabbed Sam by the scruff of the shirt and gave him a shake, like a dog disciplining a defiant pup. "Listen! Dean called Ronnie, and she sent me to you because I'm bigger and can go faster – it was a full moon, so I bit you, and turned you into a werewolf, so you'd heal up from wounds that would've killed a human, but Bobby says it can be undone."

There was a sudden stunned silence at the table as Andrew sat down again. "So, now we've got that sorted out, pass the crackling please, dear."

* * *

I have a recipe for liver brownie dog treats. My dogs love them. And so does my Obedience instructor. Oh, and his name is Andrew. I excrement you not.

I really don't think I can find a way to work Sister Fic or Crowley into this one; maybe he popped in on her a week ago, and said, "Hey, Felicity, I have a vacancy for someone to wrangle the Hellhounds..." and she threw holy water at him and slapped his face and picked up a chapel candlestick, and snarled "Get this in thy behind, Satan!" and chased him screaming out the door whilst using some appalling language...

Feed the plot bunny, because Reviews are the Delicious Brownies Served Up At The Dinner Table Of Life! (Nice yummy chocolate ones. Not liver ones.)


	7. Chapter 7

Go bunny! Go bunny! S/he loves your reviews!

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Sam was no stranger to experiencing stunned disbelief at what Dean was prepared to do to save his baby brother.

Dean had taken his Primary Directive – look after Sam – very seriously from a young age, and there was just about nothing he would not do if he thought it would keep Sam safe. He seemed to be programmed at a fundamental level to ignore his own welfare if necessary and keep Sam from harm. He was the D1000, the Deaninator, and it was hardwired into his circuits.

There had been numerous situations where Sam had been utterly gobsmacked by this. From Dean trading away his soul to Dean crash-tackling a very grumpy male swan, Sam thought that one day, he might get to a point where nothing his brother would do would surprise him.

Today was not that day. This one really took the biscuit. The dog biscuit.

Sam did a very convincing goldfish impression for several seconds before he finally found his voice. "You..." he began, "You... Dean, you... you fed me to... a werewolf?"

"No!" yelped Dean, "No! Sam, I did _not _feed you to a werewolf!"

"You fed me to a werewolf," Sam repeated woodenly.

"No he didn't," Andrew offered reasonably, biting into a chunk of crackling. "If he'd _fed_ you to a werewolf, you wouldn't be here, because you'd have been_ eaten_. Could I have the apple sauce, please?"

"He didn't eat you," Ronnie added, "He just had a teeny little taste. Here you are."

"Sam Winchester, the other white meat," nodded Andrew. "Low in fat, high in protein, dolphin safe, free range. Thank you, dear."

Sam did the goldfish thing again; Ronnie tutted, reached over and shoved a piece of crackling into his mouth. "Chew first," she patted his arm.

"You fe' be do a 'ere'ol'," Sam repeated, before starting to chew on his crackling. Ronnie tutted again, leaning in to wipe his face with a napkin.

Dean's face was a picture of despair. "Sam," he tried, "You were dying. You were dying! I had to!"

"But..." Sam's looked around the table.

"Chew," Ronnie reminded him. "You're too old for me to pre-chew it for you."

"And you're waaaaay too old for her to regurgitate meat for you," Andrew gestured with his fork.

Sam obediently chewed and swallowed.

"So..." he looked down at himself, "I'm a... werewolf."

"That's right," Ronnie beamed, like a teacher encouraging a shy student who'd just gotten a question right.

"I'm a... werewolf," Sam repeated.

"Sure are," Andrew nodded. "I bet you'll make a real good one, too."

Sam turned to Andrew. "You bit me," he said slowly, "And now I'm a werewolf."

"Yup," agreed Andrew equably, "I bit you, and now you're a werewolf. A live werewolf."

Sam turned back to Dean. "What the...?" words failed him. "Dean, what the hell were you thinking!"

"Sam..."

"I'm a werewolf!"

"Yeah, I know, I..."

"I'm a werewolf, Dean!"

"Sam, I'm aware that..."

"No, Dean,_ I'm_ a were! A werewolf! Why did you want me to be a werewolf?"

"I didn't!" Dean shot back in anguish, "I didn't _want _you to be a werewolf! I just wanted you _not_ to be _dead_!"

Sam dropped his head into his hands. "I'm a werewolf," he said again. "I've been bitten, and now, I'm a werewolf."

"A live werewolf," Andrew reminded him. "Instead of a dead human."

Sam looked up. "How can you... how can you be so calm about this?" he demanded.

"Because I'm a live werewolf, too," shrugged Andrew, nabbing a juicy piece of meat. "And it's a magnificent excuse to stuff myself with chunks of dead pig. I suggest you stop angsting, and eat. A tortured psyche is a lot easier to deal with if your stomach is full. Trust me on that one."

Sam sat in bemusement, mouth open. Ronnie leaned in, and popped in more meat. "Chew."

Sam turned back to his brother, chewing as instructed. "Did he shay... did he shay that thish cang ge ungdonge?"

"Totally," nodded Dean eagerly, "Bobby says that we can undo it as soon as he gets the countercurse together, for sure."

"How long will that take?"

"He's not certain, maybe a couple more weeks..."

Sam slumped back in his chair. "So, I'm gonna be a werewolf for a while."

"Sam..." Dean ran out of words too. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But..."

Tormented green eyes looked into bemused hazel ones.

Sam sighed. "Well," he said eventually, "I guess it could've been worse." With a resigned expression, he reached across to grab another piece of crackling. "Given a choice between eating dead pig and marrying Becky..." he contemplated the crackling then bit into it. "At least I can keep my shirt on here." He saw the gratitude in Dean's eyes, and marvelled anew at how it could be possible to want to hug his brother and kill him at the same time. "So, what happens now?"

"We finish this off, then have dessert," answered Andrew.

"That's not what I meant..."

"We know what you meant," Ronnie smiled, "You just keep doing what you've been doing – healing up – then once Bobby has the countercurse sorted out, we do that, and then the two of you get in your car, and rumble off into the sunset, happy ending, upbeat music plays, roll credits, fade to black."

"No homo," cautioned Andrew, making Dean choke on a mouthful.

"Okay." Sam stared at nothing for a moment. "I think this might be the bit where my brain explodes."

"Could you do that somewhere without carpet?" begged Ronnie. "Brains is so hard to get out of carpet."

Andrew gave her a look. "How do you know that brains is..."

"Don't ask." She stood up. "Now, who wants ice-cream with their brownie?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The Winchesters' preparations for bed that night were more subdued than usual.

"So, er," Dean began, "You wanna call first on the shower?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam replied. He picked up his bedtime sweats, and headed for the en suite.

"Sam..."

He turned around to see Dean watching him carefully. He heard his internal voice having the argument with itself again – _Hug first, kill later? No, kill first, then hug; no, that'll get blood all over me, hug first, then kill, no, what about kill while hugging?_

The Deaninator. It absolutely will not stop until you are safe.

He smiled, and settled for teasing.

"Dean, if you're about to make some comment about getting me some flea shampoo, I don't wanna hear it."

It made him happy to see the relief spread across his big brother's face, as the guilt he'd been carrying since the Black Dog attack dissolved.

Sam headed for the bathroom. "You know, Andrew's right. Bein' a live werewolf is way better than bein' a dead human. Or a live Mr Becky."

"That's what I figured," nodded Dean. "And no flea shampoo jokes, I promise."

"Good."

"If I see you scratchin', I'll just use some of the stuff I spot onto Jimi's neck..."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean slept better that night than he had for several days; when he awoke, Sam was already gone, and Jimi with him. The thought of food drove him out of bed, and he headed for the kitchen.

"So, guys, I'm here, don't scream all at once, what's for..."

He stopped, and blinked.

Ronnie stood behind Sam, brushing his hair.

"Hey, bro," Sam greeted him.

"Uh," Dean began, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything..."

"He wasn't doing it properly," Ronnie explained, "His arm is still sore, so I'm doing it for him."

"Oh. Uh, okay," Dean mumbled, heading for the coffee.

She finished Sam's hair, then made a small whuffing noise. "All done", she said, handing him the brush and bending down.

"Thanks," Sam smiled.

Dean watched as they exchanged a brief sniff of noses. _Okay, wasn't expecting that..._

"So," Ronnie went on, "Who wants pancakes for breakfast?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It wasn't as if it was completely unexpected, Dean told himself: his brother had always been such a little bitch, he shouldn't be surprised to see him acting like a little bitch who was interacting with a couple of other bitches.

What he did find strange was the way that Sam didn't seem to notice, or care, if he was doing things that he might not have done two weeks ago. Like, eat enormous amounts of bacon for breakfast. Or growl at a dog getting too close to his plate. Or communicate without using words; for a guy who could be incredibly articulate, Sam was getting the hang of basic Canine pretty damned quickly.

Dean was scraping at his plate when he heard his brother make a sad noise. He looked up and was about to ask what was wrong, when he saw Ronnie lift the jug of batter and whuff. Sam smiled, and grunted happily.

"What about you Dean?" she asked.

"Yeah, if you're gonna woof some more ruffs, I'll have a couple," he rolled his eyes. "Geez, Sam, if you had a tail, right now it'd be waggin'."

"Old North werewolves don't have tails," Sam reminded his brother. "The human form undergoes some pretty extreme transformation during the shapeshift, I mean, just look at the change to digitigrade hind limbs, but that doesn't include growing the extra vertebrae that would be required to have a tail." He looked at his own hands. "I've wondered about the hands," he went on, "They're like a cross between paws, and hands; you can run on four legs, but I know you can use a knife."

"That's an exception rather than the rule," Ronnie commented, in a voice that once again made Dean think of a teacher – or maybe a parent – listening to a precocious student talk about AP subject matter. "It took a lot of practice, and a wolf's hand could never be as dexterous as a human one. A werewolf will never fire a gun."

"The claws would probably get in the way," Sam agreed, "Are they actually protractible at all?"

"Hardly at all," Ronnie replied, "Much more like a canine paw than a feline one."

"They look like it, when a wolf is, uh, you know," he waved a hand, "Gettin' ready to get nasty."

"It's part of the threat display," Ronnie smiled, "When the carpals extend, they look bigger. Look." She put down the spatula, concentrated, and let one of her arms shift to a large, hairy appendage, tipped with wicked claws. "Relaxed, you can see there's not much more to 'em," Sam reached out, and poked curiously at one of Ronnie's digits, "But if I do this," she flexed her arm, and extended her hand as if to strike, "Everything looks bigger."

"You'd knock 'em dead at the Ms Olympia," muttered Dean, "Although you'd hafta make a double booking for your waxing appointment beforehand."

"They do retract a bit," Sam noted.

"I think that's to make it possible to run on all fours," Ronnie suggested, letting her arm snap back to human. "Compare it to Jimi's, you'll see the difference."

They continued the discussion of comparative anatomy over second helpings.

"I kinda wonder what sort of wolf I would look like," Sam admitted.

"I bet you got a long coat," smirked Dean.

"It's impossible to say," shrugged Ronnie, "There doesn't seem to be any reliable correlation between what somebody looks like as a human, and what they look like as a wolf."

"You go from, well," Sam fished for a way to put it tactfully, "You're kinda..."

"The phrase my Gammer used was 'Built like a brick shithouse'," Ronnie grinned. "Yeah, for me that translates into my lupine form. But look at Andrew; he's not exactly a 99-pound weakling, but when he transforms, he's massive. I've seen guys twice his size who are nothing like that when they shift." She giggled. "There's this bloke in Cleveland, can't control it, but locks himself in the basement every full moon. He's a bodybuilder, but when he shifts, he's, how do I put this..."

"A 199-pound weakling?" suggested Dean.

"Something like that," she grinned. "He wanted to know what he looked like, so we got some photos for him. Poor bastard, he was so embarrassed, he deleted them. Andrew can pick him up with one arm. Hell, I can pick him up with one arm."

"Are there any generalisations you can make?" asked Sam.

"Well," she said with a suggestive grin, "You know what they say about males with big C1 fangs."

"No," replied Dean, beaming innocently, "What do they say about males with big C1 fangs?"

Ronnie leaned across the table, and purred suggestively, "They have really... really... big... toothbrushes."

"Oh, God," groaned Dean, "That's ridiculous."

"Sure is," she agreed, "I mean, if you want to see how big a werewolf's dick is, all you gotta do is look." She paused thoughtfully. "Of course, most people who get close enough to a male werewolf to look at his dick don't live long enough to tell anybody about it. I'm kind of privileged in that way. So are you, technically. After all, you've seen Andrew's dick too."

Dean dropped his fork.

"Speaking of a werewolf's dick," Sam shoved a piece of bacon into his mouth, "Do werewolves have a baculum?"

"A what?" echoed Dean, looking slightly horrified at the turn the topic had taken.

"A dick bone," Ronnie translated. "Like dogs. No, but..."

"Gaaaaaaaah!" Dean yelped. "We were NOT speaking of a werewolf's dick!"

"Yeah we were," protested Sam.

"It's not a big deal," shrugged Ronnie, "Werewolves don't get hung up about nudity, you know that. Nobody cares if you've seen Andrew's dick, Dean. He certainly doesn't."

"I haven't looked at Andrew's dick!" yelped Dean.

"I didn't say you've looked at it," she countered reasonably, "I said you've seen it. And if you had looked, well, so what?"

"Oh, God, make it stop," Dean moaned. He turned to Sam. "Look, I get that you're curious about all this, seein' as you're goin' through werewolf puberty, so to speak, and that's fine," he turned to Ronnie, "But you are NOT gonna give him The Talk over breakfast, okay?"

"I think it's healthy to talk openly about these things," she smiled guilelessly at him, "I don't want him to feel dirty or ashamed about the changes in his body; these things should be taught in a no-nonsense way in the home, where he can be free to ask questions and get answers in language he can understand..."

"I hate you," Dean growled, stabbing viciously at a piece of egg. "I am NOT going to listen to werewolf sex ed over breakfast," aserted Dean, "There are some things that can ruin a man's digestion, and the thought of lookin' at a werewolf's dick – the thought of lookin' at anybody's dick – is one of 'em."

With as much dignity as a man can muster whilst juggling a plate of breakfast and a coffee, Dean announced "I'll be in the living room until you freaks are done."

They watched him stomp out.

"Was that naughty?" asked Sam.

"I think so," Ronnie nodded, "But he's just adorable when he's pissed off." She nodded at the stove. *Whuff?* _(Still hungry?)_

*Whiiiine* _(Yeah, a bit.)_

*Rumph* _(I'll get more food.)_

* * *

Awwwww, of course Sam forgives Dean - this is the Jimiverse, where the angst never lasts, the endings are always happy, and the Winchesters always make up (no homo). And as so many of the Denizens have pointed out, anything would be better than being Becky's sex slave. She can just go and check out Tumblr and deviantART for That Sort Of Thing. My word, they do have quite the imaginations, don't they?

Reviews are the Second Helpings Of Pancakes At The Breakfast Table Of Life!


	8. Chapter 8

Ermagerd you are so naise! So many reviews! Dictate, bunny, dictate 'til you herniate!

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Later in the day, Sam started agitating to visit the workshop. "Oh come on," he wheedled over lunch, "I'm gettin' cabin fever!"

"It's not safe, for a…" she paused. "Look, you're not exactly a pup, but... not when I'm casting silver, Sam."

"You do it all the time," Sam pointed out, 'And it doesn't hurt you."

"I'm a cranky old battleaxe who's been doing it for years," she replied, leaning over to put more meat on his plate, "And for the record, it gives me a headache and sometimes I feel positively unwell, even using a respirator."

"Dean wants to go and see the car," Sam pointed out. "I could just stay in the office. Please?"

"I'd rather you didn't," she replied.

"I can watch on the security cam," he persisted. "And Bobby's always sayin' you should show somebody what you do."

"You won't see much in the office," she chortled, leaning in to wipe his face. "And as much as it pains me to say it, if your welding is anything to go by, well, your brother has more of an aptitude than you, but I can't see him hanging around long enough to learn it – he doesn't have the patience to be my Padawan, and I doubt he could tolerate addressing me as 'Yes, my Master'."

Dean was no stranger to seeing Sam pout at being thwarted, then consider his next move – the kid had done it to him a thousand times. He watched his little brother consider 'I'm not a kid to be told what to do', 'I'm big enough to sit you on your ass if you try to stop me' and 'You're being completely unreasonable,' and discard them all. _Hmmm, what will Sam do?_

His brother deployed the Great Big Sad Puppy Dog Eyes. "Dean wants to see the car," Sam said in a wistful voice. "And he won't leave me by myself, even if I'd be fine."

"Sam, I can live without seeing a damned car," Dean began. _Oh, you sneaky little bitch…_

"Why should you?" Sam cut him off. "How come you always have to be the one who misses out on my account, huh?

Look, it doesn't matter…"

"It does," Sam insisted, "You heard the noise he made, Ronnie, he really wants to see the car. It's not fair that he always puts me first, even just going to see a damned car! It's not fair!"

_Sam used Emotional Blackmail._

Ronnie gave him a warm smile. "Is that what it's about?" she asked. Sam turned the Anguished Eyes up a notch, and Dean watched her reluctance crumble.

_It's super effective!_

"All right," she agreed, as Sam beamed. "But if you even start to feel the slightest bit weird, you say so right away, and come straight back here."

"Thanks, Ronnie," Sam gave her his most heart-melting smile, "From both of us."

Ronnie took out her cell to tell Andrew his lunch was on the way, plus visitors. "That was shameless," Dean growled at Sam.

"But it worked," Sam grinned smugly.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The Winchesters hitched a lift in Ronnie's truck, with the dogs riding in the bed, noses in the wind, whilst Ronnie complained about them blocking her mirrors.

"We could put Sam in the bed," suggested Dean, "There'd be plenty of room for his legs, and he might enjoy it. Although it would make a mess of his hair."

"Jerk," muttered Sam.

"It's no big deal," Dean grinned, "The alpha female can just groom the unkempt pup afterwards… OW!"

"Knock it off, you bozos," Ronnie rolled her eyes as Sam slammed the shotgun seat backwards in an attempt to squash his brother in the back, "Or I'll put you both in the bloody tray and have the dogs in the cab!"

"He started it," complained Sam. Ronnie curled her lip and growled, and he subsided.

Andrew was cleaning up and waiting for his lunch when they arrived; Dean watched in some bemusement as he greeted Ronnie and Sam with whuffs and nose-sniffing.

"What is this, you people are Eskimos?" he asked.

"Could be worse," Ronnie shrugged, "You wanna see 'em sniff each others' arses?"

"No homo," shrugged Andrew. Dean let out a bark of outrage.

"Now, stay here," Ronnie instructed as they gathered in the office. "Andrew will give you the wifi password – did you start the furnace for me?"

"Yes, dear," Andrew answered around a mouthful of steak sandwich. He bared his teeth at Sam, who was watching him eat, and Dean chuckled when Sam dropped his eyes. "The pup's hungry again."

"I fed him already!" complained Ronnie, taking some protective gear out of a battered locker, "Give him a sandwich or something. And get the cameras on screen for him."

"Hey, 'him' is right here," complained Sam, as Andrew pushed the chiller bag towards him.

"Screw food, where's the beer?" demanded Dean.

"Ah, the Winchester boy," Andrew nodded at an ancient refrigerator.

Andrew and Dean talked cars while the older man ate his lunch, and Sam watched Ronnie on the CCTV footage. "What's she doing there?" he asked.

Andrew peered at the screen. "Looks like sprue plate insulators," he said. "She makes 'em out of a plaster mix. Something to do with silver having a higher melting temp than lead, and hardening quicker."

"What is that?" he pointed at a grey thing on the bench.

"She makes her own molds," Andrew explained, "That's why her rounds look so different to anybody else's; silver doesn't deform like lead, so she's gotta change the shape so it'll break up and slow down on impact, otherwise it'll just go right through your target."

"I've wondered why her rounds look like that," Sam mused, glued to the screen. "How does she counter oxidation in the mold when she pours it?"

"By way of strange and wonderful juju," Andrew intoned. Sam pulled a face. "Seriously, you'll have to ask her later. I got no idea. So, you wanna come cheat on your number one girl, Dean?"

"Ohhh, I am so ready," Dean grinned. "It's okay – Baby understands."

"Just keep your hands where I can see 'em," Andrew frowned, "I don't wanna have to explain any nose prints – or worse – to the owner."

"Oh, gross!" yapped Sam as Dean beamed.

"Stay out of the workshop while she's casting," Andrew reiterated, "You got any questions, you can rerun the footage later, and ask to your heart's content."

"Who died and made you king?" Sam grumped.

"I bit you, which makes me Alpha," Andrew gruffed, "Stay put."

Sam let out a humphing whuff noise that sounded remarkably like the sound made by Jimi when he was told to get off a sofa where he was snoozing comfortably.

He settled in to watch Ronnie on one of the camera feeds, trying to ignore Dean mugging furiously for another. He pulled a pad towards himself, and made some notes as he watched her sort through some raw material – a combination of all sorts of stuff, including jewellery and old coins and possibly some batteries – into what looked like an old coffee pot, then take a mallet and start bashing at a badly tarnished and very ugly milk jug that might once have been intended to resemble a cow.

"Crap," he muttered, "I need an audio feed here."

It was a frustrating way to watch something; the cameras had been set up to cover the whole workshop (including the area where Dean was now miming having sex with the car, while Andrew facepalmed) and not necessarily to give a good view of the small partitioned off work area in the far corner, where Ronnie was doing... something.

"Move your arm!" Sam found himself griping at the screen. "What's in that pot? Gah!" he huffed in annoyance. "What did that jug ever do to you, huh?" The heavy protective gear Ronnie wore made it even harder to make out what she was doing.

Sam considered his options. He'd been told to stay in the office. That is, to stay out of the workshop. While Ronnie was casting silver. But he really needed the camera angle to change so he could see what she was doing...

He watched the screen thoughtfully; she was still whacking away at the jug like a relatively literate fickriter assaulting an author of tween vampire fiction. A crucible sat empty in front of the furnace, which apparently wasn't even up to temperature yet.

So, if she wasn't melting anything, she wasn't actually casting.

And if he went around the back of the building, he could just call to her from the rear door, which was conveniently open, without going through the workshop, and still stay right out of the way.

Content with his reasoning, he put down his pen, and headed for the door.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You should be careful," Andrew warned, amused, "If your brother records this and puts it on YouTube – 'My Big Brother Has Sex With Cars' – and I have to reach an out-of-court settlement with the owner over letting somebody molest a car while it's in my care, I'm comin' after you with all lawyers blazing."

"I don't care," grinned Dean, continuing to dance the lambada with a quarter panel for the express purpose of grossing out his little brother. "Knowin' that Sam's face is turnin' green as we speak, it's worth it."

"I feel I should inform you," Andrew went on, "This car's name is in fact Boris."

"No homo," grinned Dean, continuing to make ostentatious love to the car.

"You really are a sick individual, Winchester," sighed Andrew. "If you can just control yourself for a few minutes, I think you'll be impressed by what's under the hood, just let me..."

As he reached into the car to pop the hood, an alarm sounded, and a red LED on the far wall began to flash.

With a fluent curse, Andrew sprinted for a work bench, and pulled out a mask and goggles.

"What?" yelped Dean, "What is it?"

"Man down alarm!" Andrew snapped, pulling on the respirator, "We rigged one for the back room – Ronnie's in trouble! Come on!"

They barged through the partitioning to see the work area deserted.

"Where is she?" barked Dean.

Andrew didn't stop. "Outside," he headed through the door, Dean on his heels. "She must've... SHIT!"

Ronnie was indeed outside; still wearing her protective gear, she had Sam in a fireman's carry, and was heading back around the building.

"Sam!" Dean sprinted to catch up, and grabbed at his little brother's inert form. "Sam!"

"Door!" Ronnie commanded, voice muffled by the respirator.

"Got it," barked Andrew, shoulder charging the front door so the catch broke and the door burst inwards.

"What happened?" asked Dean, as Ronnie evicted the dogs from the ratty old sofa and put his semi-conscious brother there. "What the hell happened?"

"He came in the back door," Ronnie snapped, pulling off her respirator and throwing it aside, "He was supposed to be in the office!"

"Sam! Sam!" Dean dropped to his knees beside his brother; Sam's face was chalk-white, and he was shivering. "Sam! Hey, hey, stay with me, bro..."

Sam's only response was to let out a small cry like a wounded dog, which went straight to Dean's heart, and Jimi whined anxiously.

"Ronnie, what the fuck?" he called desperately.

"He's poisoned," Andrew pronounced grimly.

Ronnie was scrabbling in the bottom of the beer fridge. "Silver!" she yapped over he shoulder, "I was pulling it out of a whole bunch of stuff!"

"But... what went wrong?" Dean practically wailed. "He didn't go through the workshop!"

"Nitric acid purification," she growled, pulling at a packet. "Dissolving it in acid, to separate it from all the other crap. Silver oxide – it's volatile, no big deal if you're a human, but it's toxic to werewolves, which is why I dress up like Darth Vader and leave the door open when I do that, and your brother walked into a fucking _cloud _of the stuff!"

She tore open the packet, and removed something that looked alarmingly like a large barrelled syringe.

"Chelator," she said shortly, "It'll pull the stuff out of his blood, I hope."

"You hope?" Dean echoed, "You fucking _hope_?"

"Yes!" she snarled at him, "I've been hit with silver, but never been poisoned systemically…"

"Anything in the lungs has immediate access to the bloodstream," translated Andrew. "It's worse than a non-fatal wound with a silver round, or a knife."

"…So I only keep it here on the grounds that if I ever did get a lungful, it couldn't possibly make it any worse! Hang on to him," she instructed, popping the cap, "This is intramuscular, and it's gunna hurt."

"Sam," Dean began, putting his arms around his non-responsive brother's shoulders, "Listen to me, you gotta..."

"Move," Andrew elbowed him aside roughly, "You won't be able to hold him."

Sam made that awful sound again, and Andrew responded with a surprisingly gentle crooning noise as Sam curled into his shoulder.

"Do it," he told Ronnie, locking his arms around Sam.

She put the horrible looking thing to Sam's thigh, and triggered the release.

* * *

Poor Sam; he's just too whumpable, isn't he?

Incidentally, I had the most dreadfully discombobulating morning. I was in an OH&S training 'refresher' (in which a clueless twat spends a morning telling me how to do the job I've been doing since before he finished Grade One without even a minor incident), so I wasn't paying a lot of attention to the long list of documents scrolling past (I had a plot bunny whispering in my ear), until the course convenor happened to stop with one document out of hundreds highlighted:

_WHS Aspects Of Using Shackles._

Okaaaaaay, not the sort of thing one expects to see first thing in the morning in the workplace. Well, not in my workplace. Perhaps if your work somewhere called the Pink Pussycat, or The Glory Hole, or something like that, but not at an august research institution. I think they meant a) the D-clasps or carabiners on safety harnesses, or b) the great big latched-hook fittings used in heavy lifting equipment. It led to stunned silence, then some terrible innuendo over morning tea. Just dreadful, I tell you. Shackles. Shackles. All I could think of was shackles. The harder I tried not to think about the word, the more it whizzed around in my head. Shackles. Shackles. Funny word. Shackles. Shackles rhymes with hackles. And crackles. And tackles. And... oh, dear Cas... no no no no no.

And of course, the more I wanted not to think about it, the worse it got. Shackles. Ackles. Ackles. Shackles. Ackles in shackles. Make it stop, make it stop...

I blame the depraved beldames amongst The Denizens. The only consolation I have is that I'll bet any amount that somebody over on Tumblr thought of it ages ago...

Please send the bunny reviews, so I can get on with this story and stop worrying about OH&S documents. They're terribly distressing.


	9. An Inter-Chapter Interlude

_Meggin Lane: And you know as well as any writer that the only thing you can do to stop that annoying ( and in this case very distracting) mantra the plot bunnies keep repeating is to write a fic about Dean in shackles…_

_LeeMarieJack: Ackles in Shackles does have a nice ring to it, though. Any possibilities?_

_GrammarDemon: Guess you'll have to tackle that Ackles in shackles thing instead._

Well, I'm not completely convinced, but I'm willing to try anything at this point. So may I present to you an inter-chapter interlude titled, um…

**A Spot Of Bother - an inter-chapter interlude**

Sam pouted in that adorable yet vulnerable way that made him look like a little boy, then sat back and ran a hand through his magnificent man-mane. His research had apparently come to a dead end, and the Summer heat was making it hard to concentrate. He pulled off his damp shirt, stretched out his magnificent lats and reached for his drink bottle, rolling it across his face then drinking greedily, a small dribble of ice water escaping and running down the cleft in his chin to trickle slowly down his chest.

"Dean!" he yelled, heading upstairs, thinking he might change into a pair of shorts, "Dean, I've hit a brick wall with this job, I think I might need to…"

He was interrupted by a yodel of surprise and outrage from the room the Winchesters shared. He immediately broke into a run, and burst in through the door.

"Dean!" he yelped anxiously, "What's wro-HOLY SHIT!"

"Saaaaam!" yowled his big brother. "Saaaaaam! Haaaaaaalp!"

"Aaaaaaaargh!" warbled Sam, clapping his hands over his eyes. "Aaaaaaargh! Ooooooogh! Yeeeeeeeerg! Dude, what the fuck?"

"I don't know!" snapped Dean, "I was just getting out of the shower, and… this!"

Sam peeked between his fingers. The sight before him didn't get any less weird. In fact it got weirder.

Dean was, for reasons unknown, in what could only be described as shackles.

"Uh, Dean," he asked tentatively, "Why are you, uh, in shackles?"

"Because I've decided that Trivial Pursuit wasn't interesting enough, and I'm gonna turn Singer Salvage into a branch of the Hellfire Club!" Dean snarled, his top lip quivering and his chains rattling in indignation, "How the hell should I know?"

"It must be a witch," mused Sam. "This is the sort of thing some asshole witch would do." He scowled, and paused to hitch at the waistband of his sagging jeans where they barely clung to his hipbones like a couple of fangirls clinging to a lifesized cut-out of Jared Padalecki. "But which witch?"

"Could be a job we did recently," mused Dean, inspecting the metal around his right wrist, his bicep flexing in a fashion fit to make a Deangirl go squee, "Here, see if you can get the damned thing off."

Sam took hold of the shackle, and together they tried to open it, sweating, sweariing and grunting as their sweating arms bumped against each other.

"It's no good," Sam panted, chest heaving, "It won't open."

"Fuck," muttered Dean, wiping an idle trickle of sweat as it ran down the side of his face like a dribble of chocolate body paint, "Go get a mallet and chisel."

"If they're magic, that won't help," Sam pointed out. He cocked his head. "That's, uh, kind of interesting," he commented, "I just noticed the way that the little diamante studs on your collar spell out your name in a certain light."

"Stop admiring the hardware, you freak!" Dean hissed.

"Okay! Okay!" Sam said placatingly. "I'll make you a deal. I'll stop remarking on the strangely aesthetically pleasing appearance of your shackles, if you put on some shorts…"

* * *

Oh, damn, it's not working, let's just get on with the story and hope it stops…


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Whether it was pain from the needle punching into his leg, or the chelating drug surging into his system, Sam's eyes shot open, and he let out the sort of snarl that no human should be able to produce.

Andrew made another whuffing sound, then Sam's body began to jerk, like a cross between a seizure and a bid to escape.

"Jesus, Sam..." unable to help himself, Dean got too close, and got a boot in his midriff for his trouble. Ronnie pulled him out of the way, and grabbed at Sam's knees.

"Hold him!" she snarled at Andrew, who was struggling to hang on to Sam, and try to calm him. "He'll hurt himself!"

"I am!" Andrew growled back, "Hey, hey, hang on, youngster, hang on, hang on..."

Dean could only watch as his baby brother convulsed while the other werewolves hung on to him, trying to restrain and soothe him, and the feeling of desperate uselessness he'd experienced too many times washed over him. "Sam..." he whispered. _That's my job._

His brother threw back his head and let out a stuttering howl; Dean watched in horror as two long canine fangs extruded, followed by the corresponding pair from Sam's bottom jaw.

"Oh, God..."

Sam whimpered, and Dean felt like doing the same thing.

Another wracking spasm hit Sam, and he snarled again, then turned his head and sank his wolf teeth into Andrew's arm.

The older wolf just pulled Sam into a crushing embrace, holding him tight, and continuing the soothing noises.

It lasted for several minutes, but it seemed like an eternity that Dean could only stand and watch his baby brother writhing in pain, alternating between squeaking like a frightened puppy and snarling like a wounded animal. He felt Jimi push his head under his hand, clearly frightened by what was going on, and patted him absently, unable to tear his attention away from his brother.

"Sam..." _Looking after my brother is my job._

Finally, Sam's struggles weakened, slowed, then stopped, abating to shivering. Andrew let out a long breath, and let him go. Dean pushed past him to get to his brother.

"Sam," his voice was thick with worry, "Sam, look at me, look at me..."

Unfocused hazel eyes cracked open. "D'n?"

"Right here, buddy," Dean found a smile, "Right here, you're gonna be just fine, okay, we'll fix this, you just... "

Sam found a small smile for his brother, then his eyes slid shut again.

Dean shot a worried look at Ronnie, but the relief in her face reassured him.

"I'd say that's the worst of it," she sighed. "He's not dead, ergo, he must be on the mend."

Andrew groaned, and stood up, inspecting his arm. "Ow," he found a chuckle from somewhere, "Remind me to get the pup a chew toy, I think he's teething."

"You'll live," Ronnie decided, "Right now you get second priority. Come on," she waved her arms like somebody herding chickens together, "Home. Now." She reached down to stroke some of Sam's hair out of his face. "Oh, you idiot," she chided gently, "What did you think you were doing?"

Dean and Andrew transferred Sam's unresisting form to Andrew's truck while Ronnie locked up, and they headed back to Casa Jaeger, Sam's head resting on Dean's leg in the back seat while the older Winchester beat himself up for failing his baby brother again.

"Knock it off," grunted Andrew as he drove at ten over the limit.

"Hmmmm?" Dean broke out of his thoughts. "What?"

"The angsting," Andrew clarified, "I can hear it from here. I can smell you giving yourself a hard time over it. Knock it off. It wasn't your fault."

"I know," Dean replied automatically, "But..."

_I'm supposed to look after Sam. He's my brother. It's my job._

His eyes strayed to the bite wound on Andrew's arm. If it had happened to Dean, it would've meant a trip to Emergency.

_And this time, I couldn't._

"He was warned," Andrew went on reasonably, "He was told. We'll find out what happened, but this is not your fault. He's gonna be okay." The older man gave him a wan smile in the rear view mirror. "I promise, Dean, he will be okay."

Dean looked down into Sam's pale, drawn face.

_I'm supposed to look after Sam. It's my job._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Under other circumstances, it would've been funny: Ronnie fussed like the mother of a picky toddler, declaring that Sam would be put to bed immediately, then went into a frenzy of arranging and fluffing pillows and blankets. When Andrew hauled Sam out of the truck to carry him indoors in his arms, Sam roused enough to complain at being carried like a kid.

Dean took over once Sam was in the guest room they'd been using.

"I feel siiiiiick," Sam's mumbled complaint turned into a whine as Dean wrangled him down to tee and shorts.

"Well, you managed to get yourself poisoned with silver, bitch," Dean told him, pushing until Sam lay down.

"Ngggggggh," went Sam as Dean pulled the bedclothes up. "Deeeean, 's cold."

"He'll be feverish," Ronnie said from behind them, "Reaction to the silver. Here." She pushed a bowl of water and a washcloth into Dean's hands. "Use this, it might make him a bit more comfortable."

'Geez, you're burnin' up, Sammy," muttered Dean, wiping at his brother's face.

Sam let out another whine, batting ineffectually at Dean's hands then giving up as if the effort was too much, as Jimi echoed the sound then jumped onto the bed to lie down next to his Second.

Ronnie returned with a mug, and sat on the side of Sam's bed. "How you doing, pup?" she asked in a low rumbling voice. Sam just whined. "I have something that will help."

Sam peered blearily at her. " 'm tired," he slurred.

"I know," she went on, "But this will help you feel better. Just try a bit." She took some of the liquid on a spoon, and offered it to him with a soft whuff.

Sam sniffed suspiciously at it, like Jimi being offered a supposedly 'palatable liver flavour' worming tablet, then took a small sip. He swallowed, then smiled a little. " 'S good."

"Have some more," Ronnie instructed, as Sam slurped at the spoon again. He whined, and she gave him another spoonful.

"You think you could drink some?" she asked. Sam whined again, and she whuffed back, putting a hand under his head to help him; holding the mug carefully, she tipped it so he could sip at the contents. Whatever was in it, he liked it, because his own hand clumsily came up to paw at the mug as he started to drink greedily.

"Hey, ease up!" she chided with a small laugh, "Don't make yourself sick!"

Sam finished the drink more slowly, then sighed. "More?" he asked plaintively.

"When you've had some rest," she promised, "Why don't you try to get some sleep now, let yourself recover. You'll feel better if you have some sleep."

Dean watched Ronnie tuck the bedclothes around Sam's shoulders and drape the damp washcloth over his forehead, making the same crooning sound Andrew had used, whilst Sam whined in protest.

"You just couldn't help yourself, could you?" she went on, carding a hand through his hair, "I think you just wanted a closer look at what I was doing, which didn't turn out to be a very good idea, did it, not when I had a pot of that stuff dissolving, I'm surprised you don't recall the details of acid reclamation of silver from your chemistry classes, it's basic oxidation-reduction stuff..."

The monologue continued as Sam's wordless protests trailed off, then his drooping eyelids slid closed, and he let out a gentle snore.

Ronnie sat back and let out a long groaning sigh. "Fuck me, that's enough excitement for one day," she griped. "Next time, I think I'll just shove the big lunk into a box and nail it shut..."

"I'll sit with him," Dean said a little more vehemently than he'd intended, feeling a stab of resentment. _Taking care of Sam is my job._

If she even noticed, Ronnie let it slide. "Good," she nodded, "Somebody should. I'll brew some more of this. If he wakes up, give him some more."

"What is it?" Dean asked, not taking his eyes off his brother.

"Houndswort tea," Ronnie replied, "With a few little extras to help with the poisoning. Think of it as Gatorade for sick werewolves. Good for whatever ails ya. Bugger me, I think I could do with some."

"Yeah?" Dean sniffed at the empty mug, and pulled a face. "Oh, gross! It smells like ass!"

"Is this the point where I should ask you how you know what arse smells like?" Ronnie smiled, "Or are you saying you think it smells like donkey, in which case, should I be asking how you know what donkey smells like? Oh yeah, you rode a farty donkey once..."

"Cow," Dean mumbled.

"I'm told that to humans, it smells really disgusting, and tastes even worse," she explained. "But for us, it's a delicious pick-me-up, or a calm-me-down, or a soothing bedtime drink, or just an I'll-drink-it-because-I-like-it." She contemplated the cup. "Not exactly wolfnip, but maybe not far off. One day, I will figure out a way to blend this stuff with coffee, and I will experience Nirvana."

"Well, I aint one to frown on ambition, but I don't see Starbucks beatin' a path to your door for the recipe any time soon," he said, sitting back in his chair and scrubbing a hand over his face. "He really gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," she reassured him, "He's really gonna be okay. Although..." she took a deep breath; with a start, he realised that her hands were shaking. "I gotta tell you, he scared the shit out of me." She peered down into Sam's sleeping face. "As soon as he's better, I want to kill him."

"Welcome to my world," Dean chortled with a sigh.

Ronnie left again, then returned a few minutes later with a flask of the tea for Dean to feed to Sam if he woke up. She also brought a tall mug of coffee, and a plate piled with chocolate brownies.

"No houndswort in the coffee, scout's honour," she told him as he fell upon the chocolatey goodness. "And no liver brownies hidden in there. At least, I'm pretty sure there aren't..."

She dodged the boot Dean threw at her as she left him alone to watch over his brother.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Darkness fell before Sam woke again. His movement roused Dean, and he peered sleepily up at his big brother. "Dean?"

"Yeah, me," Dean felt relief flood through him, "Just like there and bask in my awesomeness."

"Jerk," Sam said listlessly out of habit, and let his head roll on the pillow. "I feel like crap."

"For the record, you look like crap, too," Dean informed him brightly. "Although the whole fever-flushed, bed hair thing, some women find that very attractive..." Sam let out a very Samesque huff, which made Dean smile. "Hey, you're supposed to drink some of this when you wake up," he reached for the flask. "Think you can sit up, or should I ask Ronnie if she's got a puppy nursing bottle somewhere?"

Sam scowled eloquently, then Dean helped him to roll upright on one elbow. "What is that?" he asked, nose twitching as Dean poured.

"Gatorade for werewolves," Dean informed him, "And just so you know, to humans, it smells like ass."

Sam sniffed, then tasted, then drained the mug. "Ohhhh," he hummed, "That's really good."

"Just great," humphed Dean, "My little brother likes the taste of ass."

"Jerk," muttered Sam again, "More."

Dean fed his brother two more mugs of the tea; just the effort of drinking seemed to exhaust him again. Sam winced, and Dean helped him to lie back down. "Thanks," he muttered. "I feel like I've been hit by that truck again. What happened?" he asked.

"You didn't follow orders," Dean replied, trying not to let anger leak into his voice as he wiped at Sam's face with the washcloth again, "You were supposed to stay in the office, but you went around to the back door of Ronnie's work space..."

Recall of the events showed on Sam's face. "Oh, yeah," he mumbled.

" 'Oh, yeah'?" repeated Dean. " 'Oh, yeah', that's all you've got to say? Sam, you were told it wasn't safe..."

"She wasn't casting!" Sam retorted, "She said to stay out of the workshop when she was casting, and she wasn't!"

"No," humphed Dean, "She was doin' something worse. Dissolvin' the stuff in acid, or something."

"Is that what it was?" Sam blinked. "I wondered about that. I just wanted to ask her to move one of the cameras a bit, so I could see better."

"Well, you nearly got yourself killed," Dean told him. "You got poisoned, Sam! You could've died!"

"Well, I didn't," replied Sam sheepishly, seeing the anguish he'd caused his big brother. "Dean, I'm... well, I feel like crap, but I'm not dead. I'm really sorry."

"The point is, you could've been," Dean insisted. "You're not... you gotta take other things into consideration, just now, okay? Goin' stir crazy, I get that, I really do, an' I know you hate bein' told what to do, but, just for now, you gotta be careful, Sam. If Ronnie or Andrew tells you to do or not do something, you gotta listen, bro, because they're..."

_your pack now_

He stumbled over the words, "They've been there and done that, and they just want you safe, too."

"Okay," Sam agreed, "You're right. Again. Jerk."

"Good," Dean's anger, which was often how worry about his baby brother found its way out, dispersed. "You just hold that thought." He sat down again. "So, how are you feeling?" he asked. "Really?"

Sam's eyes closed again. "Sore. Tired. Hungry."

"I'm detectin' a recurring theme here," Dean grumbled, relieved because 'hungry' seemed to indicate normality for a werewolf. "I'll go see if we can get you something to eat."

"Thanks, bro," Sam gave his big brother a smile.

Dean stretched out his back, gave Jimi orders to keep an eye on Sam, then headed out of the room.

"Hey, Ronnie," he called, "He's awake, and he-OOF!"

He walked into a fur rug that somebody had hung from the ceiling.

Upon stepping back, he realised that he'd actually walked into Andrew.

"Whoa! Dude!" he stepped back; even knowing that Andrew was friend and not foe, the Hunter in him was not comfortable about being so close to a werewolf. Especially one, he could see, who seemed to be somewhat agitated. "Hey, what's up?"

Andrew let out a short gruff, then moved past him, silently pacing the hallway.

Dean headed for the kitchen where he could hear and smell the noises and scents of food preparation underway (Dean being able to detect a sausage at fifty paces even with a bad head cold). "Uh, I don't know if anybody's told you," he began, "But you got a werewolf in your hall."

Ronnie's smile was fond. "He can't help it," she said, "Just leave him to it."

"Is he stuck again?" Dean asked, poking a finger into bowl of fruit filling of some sort and getting a sharp snarl for his trouble, "Mmmmm, that's good."

"Don't think that by contaminating it, you get the entire pie to yourself," she sniffed disdainfully. "I'm not afraid of boy germs..."

Andrew stalked past the kitchen door, thrusting his head through to sniff the air suspiciously. Ronnie gruffed to him, and he resumed his pacing.

"I can get him some beer..." Dean offered.

"He's not stuck as such," Ronnie said, "Well, yeah, he is, but it's for a reason this time. He's patrolling."

"Patrolling?" Dean echoed. "What for?"

"He's... on guard against any threat," Ronnie replied, "It's... it's an instinct thing. Truth be told, I'm having some trouble staying on two legs myself. But then the latticing would be hard to do with paws." She started cutting the pastry in front of her into strips. "To say nothing of trying to use a pastry brush. We get enough dog hair in everything in this house without me adding to it."

"What sort of threat?" pressed Dean, instantly alert. "Is something a danger to Sam?"

"No," Ronnie reassured him, "Unless there's a Hunter lurking in the bushes, and we'd smell him a mile away. It's..." she paused. "It's what happens when a member of the pack is wounded, or sick, or incapacitated. We feel... compelled to protect him." She jerked a thumb towards where Andrew had been. "And instinct says, you can do that more effectively on four legs."

Dean dropped into a chair. "This is... " he ran out of words. "I just wanted Sam to be not dead. I didn't expect... this."

"If it makes you feel better, neither did I," she gave him a rueful grin. "But he's alive, and pretty much healed up. Well he was, until he decided not to do what he was told..."

"Like I said, welcome to my world," Dean muttered. "I came to tell you he's awake. And hungry."

Roonie beamed as she trimmed the edges of the pastry. "I'll make him something easy to eat, comfort food, then dish up dinner for the humanoids," she said. "You want the pastry trimmings?" She pushed the leftover strips of pastry towards Dean.

"Don't you dare put a dick on it this time," he insisted, shoving a piece of pastry into his mouth.

"Oh, while you're here, could you feed the canines?" she asked. "There could be a bowl of pie filling to be licked out in it for you."

"I'm on it," he trilled, heading for the cupboard to fetch dog bowls, and dole out meat and kibble.

Jimi wouldn't leave Sam, so he ate in their room. Joni insisted on staying outside to watch the yard, so she ate outside.

"Okay, so do I get my... " Ronnie handed him a large meaty marrow bone from the refrigerator, and nodded to the hallway.

Andrew ate his dinner squatting in the hall outside the Winchesters' room.

"If that woman ever takes me to task over my table manners, ever again," Dean said, watching the werewolf crunch into the bone like a child crunching a candy cane, "I am gonna tell her where to shove it."

* * *

There we go, hurt!Sam, awesomeangstingbigbrother!Dean, just how the Denizens like 'em, plus, as a special bonus, mothering!('damming!'?)Ronnie and stuckinwolfformagain!Andrew.

Go Mavgang! Feed him/her* reviews, because they are the Delicious Puffy Pastry Lattices On The Pies Of Life!

*I really need a pronoun to refer to Mavgang, our gender-undecided plot bunny. Hasn't FaceSpace done something about extending the range of gender descriptions and pronouns recently? What's a suitable one for a bunny who is either male, or female, or both, or a combination, or somewhere in between, depending on how many sequins are present? Ve? Xe? Thon? Parsnip?


	11. Chapter 10

Sam is sweaty and unshirted.  
Dean is badly disconcerted,  
Lathering himself a lot,  
In the shower, wet and hot -  
As the final water drained,  
Suddenly, poor Dean was chained!  
Sam then asked him "What the hell?"  
"I don't know! How could I tell?"  
Dean was not at all impressed,  
Standing, damp and quite undressed  
Shackled by a naughty witch,  
"Let's go kill that fucking bitch!  
Sam, go find out just what goes on."  
First Dean, you should put some clothes on…"

Le sigh. Risqué Dr Seuss. The Denizens; they are depraved, even if they do get shit done.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Dean wasn't sure exactly what he was expecting for 'comfort food' – the universal chicken soup, or scrambled eggs on buttery toast, maybe a fluffy omelette – but it turned out to be a large steak, barely seared, and cut into small chunks.

When she brought it into the room, Sam gave Ronnie a tired smile, and made a small yipping noise, to which she replied with a low rumble.

"How you feeling now, pup?" she asked, putting the plate down and sitting beside him.

"Tired," he said, eyelids still at half-mast. "But I'm hungry."

"Well, I think we can help with that," she stated, picking up the plate and skewering a chunk of meat on a fork. "Open up. And FYI, I am not gunna do choo-choo noises."

Dean watched, bemused, as Ronnie kept up a stream of chatter, while Sam opened his mouth to be fed chunks of steak and sips of werewolf gatorade. It put Dean in mind of a baby bird having worms stuffed into it by an attentive parent. Even if Sam was falling asleep again by the time all the steak was gone. He felt that flare of resentment again.

_That's my job. Looking after Sam is my job. He's my baby brother._

"Now, why don't you try to get some rest," Ronnie instructed Sam, tucking the bedclothes around him again, "And tomorrow you'll feel better."

" 'Kay," mumbled Sam, his eyes closing again even as he spoke, "Night."

She brushed his hair out of his face again. "Night, pup," she said softly before standing up. "Come on," she said to Dean, "Let's eat. He'll be fine," she saw his glance towards his brother, "Jimi's here with him, and Andrew's right out there."

"Yeah," Dean replied, telling himself to stop being so stupid, because the important thing was that Sam was alive, Sam was safe, and Sam was getting better. That was his Primary Directive, and should be his only concern here.

_Looking after Sam is my job. He's my baby brother. He's family._

_But now, he has... a pack._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Whether it was the quick administration of the chelating agent, the healing properties of ass tea and practically raw meat, being coddled by the alpha female, or just normal werewolf robustness, the next morning Sam was pretty much recovered. His sleep was restless until about midnight, when Dean fed him some more ass tea, then his fever broke, and he was out like a light until the morning.

He woke up, stretched and yawned, then slowly sat up. Dean was still asleep, and Sam didn't want to wake him, so he carefully threw back the bedclothes, and swung his legs out of bed. Jimi whuffed quietly, and wagged his tail.

"Hey, fella," Sam patted the big square head smiling up at him, "It's okay, I feel much better. In fact, I feel pretty good. And hungry." He wrinkled his nose; the smell of stale sweat was coming from his bed, then he sniffed at his shirt. "Eugh, maybe I should shower, I feel grungy, and I smell kinda ripe." Jimi rubbed his face over Sam's shirt with evident enjoyment. "Okay, that settles it, I need to wash." Moving quietly so as not to disturb his brother, he headed for the small en suite.

Dean awoke later, and his Sam radar immediately informed him that the other bed was no longer occupied, but the shower was running. "Sam!' he called.

"In here," Sam called back, and Dean heard the water shut off. "Don't worry, bro, I woke up feeling fine, if smelling disgusting."

"Well, you did run a fever last night," Dean told him, "You sure you're okay?"

"Sure I'm sure," answered Sam, "And I'll be even more okay after breakfast."

"Yeah, he's okay," Dean muttered to Jimi, who sprang onto the bed to give his Alpha a proper good morning greeting. "Stick a tail on him, he'd be as bad as you."

Dean completed the ritual of Man Arising (yawn, stretch, fart, scratch groin), then got out of bed, and started to dress. The bathroom door slid open behind him. "You really don't need to worry, Dean," he heard Sam say, "Seriously, I feel fine."

"Glad to hear it," griped Dean, "After your performance yesterday, I thought you wer-HOLY SHIT WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN'?"

"Hmmmm?" Sam wandered across the room to his own bed. "Getting dressed. What does it look like? I've had a shower, now I need to put some clean clothes on."

"But... not like that!" yapped Dean.

"Like what?" Sam turned around, apparently mystified.

"Oh, fuck, don't turn around!" Dean yelped.

"Dean, what's the matter?" asked his brother.

"You, you big freak!" Dean's voice sounded shrill, "You're the matter? What's with that?"

Sam looked down at himself. "I'm just about healed up," he noted, "Since when are you squeamish about a few bruises?"

"Jesus Christ, it's not that!" Dean squawked, "For fuck's sake, put some pants on!"

"I am," Sam shrugged, ratting through his duffel, "That's what 'getting dressed' means."

"Sam," Dean growled, "You are standing there _naked_!"

Sam didn't seem at all concerned. "Yeah, well, I just got out of the shower."

"What happened to your towel?" demanded Dean.

"I hung it on the rail," Sam replied, "To dry. So I can use it again."

"Sam," Dean tried again, "Why are you naked?"

Sam looked utterly bemused. "Uh, it's what people do, you know," he gestured vaguely. "To have a shower, they take their clothes off, then get under the water, and wash, then they dry off, then put their clothes back on."

"Exactly!" declared Dean, "Exactly! They put their clothes back on! They do NOT parade around NAKED!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, I'm not 'parading around naked'," he said, "I've just come out of the shower to get dressed!"

"Why didn't you take your stuff with you?" Dean wanted to know.

Sam shrugged. "What's the big deal?" he countered, unconcerned, "I mean, it's not like I've got anything you haven't seen before..."

"That doesn't mean I _want _to see it!" Dean wailed.

"You're always so keen to remind me that you wiped my ass and changed my diapers," Sam pointed out.

"When you were a kid, Sam!" Dean qualified, "When you were a baby, a toddler! Now you're, uh, look, a man wakes up in the mornin', the last thing he wants to see is his brother, naked!"

"Since when are you so uptight about it?" queried Sam.

"Since you're apparently not!" Dean shot back.

"You're the one who's always goin' on about how the human body is a beautiful, natural thing," Sam reminded him, "Capable of beautiful, natural acts, you usually add."

"Okay," Dean moaned, dropping heavily onto his bed, "I take back that last bit: the last thing a man actually wants to see when he wakes up in the mornin' is his brother, naked, talking about beautiful natural acts."

"I really don't get you," Sam sighed, pulling on a pair of shorts. "It's just a human body. I thought I was supposed to be the prude here."

"So did I," Dean moaned, "So did I. Oh, God, I don't want to look at my brother naked..."

"So don't," Sam suggested equably. "Look, you're probably feeling a bit... delicate this morning, because I'm pretty sure you had a crap night's sleep on my account..."

"Delicate?" spat Dean. "Who's delicate?"

"Well, you and your sensibilities, apparently," Sam rolled his eyes and pulled on a shirt.

"Sam," Dean growled, "You are not, I stress this, you are NOT to stroll around naked. Promise me you won't stroll around naked."

Sam huffed in a put-upon manner. "If it will shut you up, sure, I promise, I will not stroll around naked."

"Well, good," humphed Dean, barely mollified.

His mood didn't improve a lot over breakfast; he felt like a wildlife documentary presenter, watching the other three, plus two dogs, move around in the kitchen, largely not bothering with spoken language, and wondered if he should find a shrub to hide behind so he could whisper earnestly into a microphone.

_They greet each other with a brief exchange of nose-sniffs, the werewolf equivalent of 'good morning', and get on with the business of eating, a subject never far from a werewolf's mind. The mated pair concern themselves closely with the youngest of the pack, satisfying themselves that he is recovered from his ordeal. Like any youngster, he protests at the attention; but not too much. The female busies herself with the preparation of foodstuffs, whilst the Alpha male rumbles his concern – having spent the night in wolf form, as an instinctive precaution whilst the youngster was vulnerable, he will eat heartily this morning – and the younger male huffs and rolls his eyes, protesting that he is not a helpless pup. They sit on either side of him, the males occasionally exchanging playful shoulder bumps whilst the female scolds them affectionately. Occasionally, she will pause in her own eating to wipe the young one's face, and make sure he is eating properly..._

Later in the day, Bobby called with good news.

"Well, I got your countercurse ready to go," he informed Dean.

"Oh, thank fuck for that," Dean sighed, "I don't know how much more of this I can take..."

"He didn't cock a leg on your car, did he?" Bobby chortled.

"Not yet," Dean humphed, "And if he does I'll whack him with a rolled up newspaper."

He explained the events of the week, including Sam's close encounter of the silver kind."

"Balls," rumbled Bobby, "Kid never has liked doin' what he's told."

"Tell me about it," Dean groaned. "I'm tellin' ya, Bobby, I think he's goin' native. It was like listenin' to The Caveman Show this morning, they were all speaking Canine. Plus, there's his sudden urge to wander around naked..."

"Well," Bobby mused, "Werewolves are kinda blasé about that sorta thing, you know. They just don't think of 'emselves as nekkid. And he just walked from the shower to the bed, it's not like he did it in public..."

"He did it in front of me!" Dean almost wailed.

"Not a lot you can do about it," Bobby chuckled. "Look, I've been doin' some reading about this sort o' thing. It's because he's been benevolently turned; adopted, if you like. He's been invited and welcomed into their pack, so of course they're gonna fuss over him, and worry about him, and treat him like he's the, uh, baby of the family, so to speak. It's actually a good thing."

"A good thing?" Dean's eyes bugged. "My brother seems to be forgetting spoken language, forgetting what vegetables are and forgetting how clothes work, and you say it's a good thing?"

"In werewolf terms, yeah," Bobby replied. "Sounds like there's been no, uh, testosterone storms. No arguments between the Alpha male and the newcomer, no 'teenager' tantrums. They can get pretty nasty before they get settled."

Dean thought about the last several days. "No," he agreed slowly, "Nothing like that. If he's actually goin' through werewolf 'puberty', he's the most well-adjusted 'teenager' I've ever seen." He ran a hand through his hair. "But you got the countercurse worked out, right?"

"Uh-huh," Bobby confirmed, "I'll send it to you."

Dean heard the pause. "There's a 'but', isn't there?" he sighed in resignation, "I can hear the 'but'. What's the 'but', Bobby?"

"Well," Bobby began, "The countercurse is pretty easy: the potion is straightforward, the incantation is in Old German, but Andrew can coach you – the thing is, the ritual has to be performed on the same day of the lunar cycle on which the werewolf in question was turned."

Dean groaned. "Oh, crap. So that means..."

"Yup," sympathised Bobby, "Last day of the full moon. Which means that Sam will have to go through at least two shapeshifts before you can change him back."

There was a crash from the kitchen, a snarl and then a bark of amusement. Andrew and Sam charged through the living room, each clutching handfuls what looked like leftover meat from the previous night's dinner, gleefully stuffing it into their faces. Behind them came Ronnie in hot pursuit, wielding a dishcloth and growling in anger. The dogs joined in just on general principles.

"Great," sighed Dean, "I'm trapped in a remake of _Lassie Come Home._ What am I supposed to do until the end of the next full moon?"

"Well, son, if I'm frank, your domestic habits can be kind of disgustin'," Bobby pointed out. "I suggest you just enjoy it."

"Huh?" gawped Dean.

"You know," Bobby went on to elaborate, "Eatin' lots of meat, with your hands, sounds like the sort of thing you'd adapt to..."

The pursuit went back through the living room the other way. Ronnie's legs weren't as long as Sam's or Andrew's, but the reach of her dishcloth was long. There was a snap, and a yelp.

"Oh, God, if this turns into some sort of group nudist scene, I'm outta here," moaned Dean.

"If it does, might as well just love the skin you're in," Bobby consoled him. "I'm pretty sure none of them will hump your leg."

"I hate you."

* * *

Aaaaaaand some G.W.N. for the fans. Although if you asked Sam, he'd probably point out that he's not naked; he just doesn't have any clothes on.

Mavgang has been shaking wiya's sequins - send reviews, and I think we an get it finished pretty quickly, because Reviews are the Crack-Laced Carrots Fed To The Plot Bunnies Of Life!


	12. Chapter 11

Ronnie is quite amazingly domesticated, some of the feminine arts having been imparted to her by her grandmother practically at gunpoint. Gammer Shepherd had, as has been alluded to in previous stories, some Very Definite Ideas about the skill set a young lady required to see her through life: she should be able to maintain her own weapons, get stains out of delicate fabrics, load her own ammo, knit and crochet and make her own clothes, speak Latin well, bake a perfect sponge, throw a competent jab-cross combo (leading with either hand), make a flawless soufflé, drive a getaway car, press a business shirt with set-in sleeves, use a knife competently on an opponent or a fish, dance a waltz, unwind a curse in a hurry, exorcise a demon, make dinner for six without less than an hour's notice, shoot off a gnat's dick at fifty yards with her non-dominant hand, wreak lethal and bloody havoc with nothing but a handbag and a positive attitude (and how to get the mess off the bag afterwards) and know how to make puff pastry from scratch. All with good posture, whilst keeping one's knees together.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Later in the day, Ronnie announced that she was going back to the workshop to set up the next step of her silver reclamation process.

"All I have to do is drop some chunks of copper in," she told them, "So I won't be long."

"You need back-up?" asked Dean.

"I am not having a Winchester get anywhere near that place," she growled.

"She's a big girl," Andrew waved a hand, "She was doin' it safely by herself well before I met her." He grinned. "Although, next time you pass through Singer Salvage, ask Bobby about one time when she was usin' one of his sheds; she spilled some acid, and she didn't realise how much had gone through her apron, and when she went outside to rinse it off with the hose, her pants just dissolved off her and left her standing there in her..."

There was a high-pitched, gurgling growl from Ronnie. Andrew yipped, and shut up. Sam burst out laughing.

"Something funny, RinTinTin?" asked Dean a bit sourly.

"Oh, er," chortled Sam, his amusement abating. "It was, uh, a kind of threat. The exact message was, well, telling him she's not receptive to mating, but the way she kind of said it..."

"Canine is often largely about context," Andrew explained sheepishly. "She may technically have said 'Not tonight, dear', but the meaning was more something like 'If you do not shut your mouth right this minute you will not get laid for the next six months'." He turned to his wife. "Didn't your grandmother ever tell you to make sure you wore decent underwear every day in case you got hit by a bus and had to go to hospital or spilled acid while you were reclaiming silver to cast ammo for Hunters? OW!"

The thwack that Ronnie landed on Andrew might've broken something in a human.

"Canine 101, Lesson Two: that's how we say 'I love you too, darling," she said sweetly, as Andrew rubbed his arm and whined. "Didn't your grandmother ever tell you to make sure you always wear decent underwear, in case you got hit by your wife and had to go to hospital?"

"Led with your chin on that one, dude," smiled Sam.

"Whose side are you on?" demanded Andrew.

"She's the one who feeds me," Sam pointed out.

"Tonight, I'm the one taking us all to the steakhouse," Andrew reminded him.

"In that case, Ronnie, there is no call to resort to violence," Sam tutted in a disapproving voice. "Violence never solves anything."

She gave him a long look. "In our line of work, violence solves just about everything," she countered. "Give or take the odd countercurse."

"Speaking of which, what are we gonna do with him when he does his shapeshift, before we can undo the whole shebang?" Dean wanted to know.

"Basement, I guess," shrugged Ronnie, "It held Andrew first time around; I'm guessing it'll hold Junior here, if necessary."

"Hey!" yapped Sam, "Who are you calling 'Junior'?"

"Well, I didn't think you'd like Fluffy," she replied. "That is, if we need to contain you."

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see," sighed Andrew. "Has Bobby found anything more about, you know, whether he's likely to have, uh, 'inherited' control of the shapeshift?"

"Not so far," Dean told them. "Although, with his newfound habit of walkin' around naked, maybe he'd enjoy the whole gettin' chained up in the basement thing."

"I'm not gonna knock it 'til I've tried it," Sam mused equably, making Dean exclaim in disgust.

"Behave yourselves," instructed Ronnie, picking up her keys.

"Hey, get beer!" yelled Andrew.

"Get fucked," the reply drifted back.

"Well that's you told," commiserated Dean.

Sam went back to his laptop, and Andrew and Dean ended up playing on the Playstation.

"Hey, Sam!" called Dean after beating Andrew, "Wanna come and get your ass kicked?"

When there was no answer, they both turned around.

Sam was staring thoughtfully at his hands.

"Uh, dude, what's with the staring?" asked Dean.

"Hmmmm? Oh," Sam looked up, "I was, uh, well, actually, I've been wondering, you know, what kind of wolf I'll look like." He stared at his hands again. "I wonder what colour I am?"

"Can't really tell, until we see you," Andrew told him.

"I've seen you guys do the hand thing," Sam said. "And you did it, Dean, when you and Ronnie swapped bodies..."

"It's not easy to explain," Andrew empathised, "It took me a while to get the hang of it. But it's easier if somebody demonstrates it." He took a seat opposite Sam, and held out his own hands. "Ronnie describes it as letting your body 'expand' into the wolf. To me, it feels more like stretching."

With a look of intense concentration, he glared at his hands. After a moment, his fingers changed, thickened and elongated, and wicked claws extended from the ends, then his form snapped back to human. "See? Imagine your hands stretching, visualise your claws..."

"Focus, grasshopper," Dean intoned seriously.

With a brief scowl at his brother, Sam renewed his concentration on his hands, the crease between his eyes deepening. Nothing seemed to be happening, and then...

"Oh. Oh!" His hands reluctantly lengthened, in a stop-start fashion.

"That's it! That's it!" encouraged Andrew. "Concentrate on that feeling!"

Sam glared at his hands. Like a special effects sequence, they enlarged, transformed, and became a pair of large, hairy paws. A long, vicious claw finally extended from the end of each digit.

"Wow," he breathed, a small smile on his face, "Just... wow..."

"Kinda cool, isn't it?" enthused Andrew, holding out his own hands and letting them change again.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Sam closed his eyes.

His arms began to stretch, lengthening and thickening, with a dense, dark pelt growing from them.

"Fuck me!" yipped Dean, as the change travelled up his brother's arms, bursting the sleeves of his shirt.

"Way to go, pup!" enthused Andrew, as Sam opened his eyes to look at himself.

"I'm... brown," he breathed, apparently in wonder, gazing at the astonishingly large appendages now extending from his shoulders. He slowly turned his arms over, and flexed his paws. "Wow, that feels... " he made fists; muscle bulged under his pelt. "That's... wow..."

"That's amazing," Andrew breathed, "I don't think brown pelts are very common; grey is more usual..."

"Uh, maybe you should, you know," Dean waved a hand vaguely, "Get back to human."

Sam didn't appear to be listening. Sam was staring at his arms, mesmerised by what he saw. Andrew watched him, and smiled.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he grinned.

"Yeah," Sam admitted, "It feels... strong..." he smiled like a kid finding a new toy in the toy box. "It feels... great..."

"Sam," Dean warned.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam assured his brother, examining his paw-hands, "I got this. I can... it's hard to explain, but I can _feel_ what to do. I can... uh... " his gaze became unfocussed. "Uh-oh... whoaaaaaaaaa..."

Buttons popped off his shirt.

"Aaaaaaaaaaa..."

There was a sound of tearing fabric.

"Aaaaaaaaaaa..."

His shoes made odd popping sounds.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaa-aaawwrooooooooooooooooooooo!"

A last button hit the ceiling, then there was silence.

Dean stared. "Sonofabitch!" he managed.

Sam was brown. His pelt was a magnificent deep, glossy, luxuriant chocolate brown, And he was tall. Very, very tall. If Dean was honest, his little brother was a magnificent specimen of wolfdom. Yep, if he was any judge, definitely the sort of guy that lady wolves would like to see in the centrefold of their Cosmowolfitan magazine.

"You are!" Andrew laughed, "You're brown! Oh, wow, look at youuuuuu..."

Buttons popped off his shirt, there was a sound of tearing fabric...

"Uuuuuuuuuuoooowwwwwwwooooooooooooooooo!"

It sounds like the beginning of a joke, Dean sighed to himself.

_A Hunter and two werewolves are sitting in a living room. Suddenly, one shapeshifts to his wolf form. In the excitement, so does the other. The first wolf says..._

"Awrooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

_Then the second wolf says..._

"Awrooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

_Then the Hunter turns to them and says..._

"Do you idiots have to do that inside?"

It really wasn't a very good punchline, but it got their attention.

The two wolves stood looking at each other. Andrew was dark grey, and more heavily built, but Sam was clearly taller, and he panted his amusement. Sam looked down at himself, clearly amazed by what he saw, and let out a happy bark.

"Well, this is..." Dean began. "So, uh, I guess you got the cognitive thing goin' on, huh?"

Sam panted happily, and gave him a clumsy thumbs up.

"Well, at least we know," Dean shrugged in resignation. "So, uh, what now?"

Sam let out that happy bark again, and spun around on the spot as if trying to confirm that he didn't have a tail. Jimi, who had been watching from his snoozing spot on the rug, barked and jumped, tail wagging furiously. Sam reached down to bump him gently, playfully, and Jimi's whole back end started to wiggle.

"So, uh, you got the whole, you know, wolf out thing happening," Dean acknowledged, watching the wolves sniff at each other and exchange a brief growl-wrestle like dogs playing, "So how about now you show him how to HEY!"

Dropping to all fours, Andrew bounded out of the living room. With a moment of hesitation, Sam followed him.

"Hey!" Dean followed them to the door, "What the hell do you think you're doin'?"

Sam stood again, and pawed at the door handle, whining. He turned back to Dean, and turned the most convincing Sam Winchester Puppy Dog Eyes he'd ever done on his brother.

"Look, I know this place is outta the way and all, but I'm not sure if it's a good idea for you to go outside," Dean said sternly, "So, no, I'm not gonna let you out."

Sam whined again.

"No," Dean repeated, "And don't you dare pee on the carpet."

Andrew nudged at Sam's flank with a reassuring whuff, then stood. Slowly, painstakingly, he pawed at the door handle, the massive hand closing over it...

"You can't open doors, dude," Dean told him, a little smugly. "You're a werewolf, not a velociraptor."

With a small click, the knob turned, and the door swung open.

Radiating excitement, both werewolves, followed by Jimi, disappeared into the back yard.

"Sonofabitch!" squawked Dean. "Sam! Sam! You get your shaggy ass back in here!"

They bounded off the back porch without using the steps.

"I mean it, Sam!"

With room to move, Sam stood up, threw back his head, and howled. Andrew and Jimi joined him.

"Saaaaam! Don't make me come down there with a collar and leash!"

With a cheeky huff, Sam reached out and cuffed at Andrew's ear, and they began a playful wrestle.

"Oh, crap." Dean sank down onto the back step, and put his chin on his hands. "You guys need me to throw you a stick, or something?"

Sam gave him a happy whuff, and Andrew managed a clumsy yet identifiable flip-off.

"Great, just great," griped Dean. "For the record, if either of you make a mess, I for one am not manning the pooper scooper!"

In the encroaching evening, they seemed content just to grapple and roll around, with Jimi joining in. It was a scene of pure fun, friends enjoying each other's company in the moment. Dean found himself feeling a bit left out.

After a while, he got up, wandered back into the house, and returned with beers.

"If I'm gonna sit here and watch you ladies grope each other, I might as well as enjoy it," he announced.

Andrew loped to the porch, picked up a beer, put a claw delicately through one end, bit into the can, and shotgunned it. Sam watched him, then carefully picked up a beer of his own.

Unfortunately for the younger Winchester, he hadn't had the practice that Andrew had; his hold on the can was way too tight, and it ruptured, spraying him with beer.

The surprised look on Sam's face was so comical that Dean fell over backwards laughing, then did it all again when he realised that, even as a seven-foot-plus werewolf, Sam could still pull a bitchface.

Sam sprayed himself with beer once more before he managed to hold a can without crushing it, bit into it, and get most of it into his mouth.

"You really need to practise, bro," Dean grinned. Sam stuck out his tongue, then produced a long, rolling, sonorous burp. Andrew let out a panting rumble that was clearly amusement, and Dean collapsed with laughter again.

It was a moment of pure bro-ness, an authentic bro mo, three guys just having a real laugh about the gastrointestinal prowess of one of their number, a moment of which there were far too few in the Winchesters' life, and Dean decided that the fact his brother and his other companion were werewolves was just a minor detail in the grand scheme of things. Apparently, belch humour crossed species.

Right up until the bro mo was brutally dispelled by a voice yelling in an accent so thick it was barely comprehensible.

"What the bloody 'ell j'you frigging idiots think yar doing?"

* * *

Oh dear. The phrase we use Down Here is 'sprung bad', which means, you've been caught red-handed, in the act, in flagrante delicto, with both hands in the cookie jar. They're supposed to head off to dinner shortly; if Andrew gets stuck, Ronnie won't be happy. And if Sam has 'inherited' getting stuck from his 'sire'... oh dear.

Would somebody like to point out to Dean that, technically, his brother is naked again?

Feed Mavgang those delicious reviews, because Reviews are the Shotgunned Beers Enjoyed With Friends On The Back Porch Of Life!


	13. Chapter 12

Andrew has previously been described to members of the general public (who've spotted him when he's been stuck in wolf form) as a South African Hippohound, a rare giant breed use to hunt hippos, hence their size. When this happens, he must perform a number of obedience tricks, and give the impression that he is just a big happy dog (which isn't far off the reality). The most difficult aspect of this charade is that Ronnie has to think up excuses when people ask to be put in touch with a breeder, or on the waiting list for a puppy.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Dean was one of the few Hunters who had encountered an adult male Old North werewolf, and lived to tell the tale. What these monsters could do was almost unbelievable.

They moved faster than they should be able to, even on long muscular legs. They could flip medium sized sedans. They could deliver a blow that was the equivalent of a werewolf bitch-slap and break a human's neck, if they didn't just punch through the sternum to pull out the victim's still-beating heart. They could tear the head clean off a vampire (he'd seen it done). They could pull the arms off a wendigo. Unless you had silver, and managed to shoot or stab them with a killing hit (wounding one would just annoy it) they were nigh on impossible to kill.

It was no wonder that humans had, for centuries, tried to exterminate them; they were ruthlessly efficient and effective killing machines, vulnerable to little short of an angel, a powerful demon, or a tactical nuke (and even then, they could dig like excavators on speed, and could probably improvise a shelter, then they'd pop up after the fireball had dispersed, and you'd have to deal with an angry werewolf plus the smell of singed dog hair. But at least they'd be easier to spot if they glowed in the dark afterwards).

Theoretically, standing more than seven feet upright, weighing in at over three hundred pounds of muscle, a fine alpha material male specimen of _Oldnorthus werewolfus frigginghugeii_ in his prime needed to fear nothing that walked God's green Earth, except perhaps for another male werewolf.

Theoretically.

In Hunting, though, Dean had found that theory often suffered from the same flaw as the most carefully considered battle plan: it didn't survive first contact with the enemy.

Or, in this case, an angry female _Oldnorthus werewolfus friggingpissedii_.

Ronnie glared at the males in the back yard, and let out a growl like an irritated chainsaw. "I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this," she went on more quietly, "I have no doubt that, given a chance, you will give me a rational explanation for the fact that you are out here, cavorting, when we are supposed to be leaving to go to dinner in about fifteen minutes." She crossed her arms, and glared. "And I am just dying to hear it."

There was a moment of quiet broken only by the whining of three canoids – Andrew, Sam and Jimi – as their ears drooped and their heads dropped submissively.

"Come on, then," prompted Ronnie with a dangerous smile, "I'm all ears." After a moment, she let her ears transform briefly into the wolf's long, pointed pinnae, just to make the point. "My, Ronnie, what long ears you have – all the better to detect your complete and utter bullshit, my dears…"

The two male wolves looked at each other. Sam and Jimi dropped to their haunches, and offered head-explodingly awwwww-inducing versions of the Big Brown Puppy Dog Eyes. Andrew harrumphed, and offered what could only be interpreted as an ingratiating grin.

It didn't work.

"Dean, what the fuck are Scooby and Scrappy playing at?" she demanded.

"What's the matter, Spock, not logical enough?" ventured Dean. She just growled, and let her ears retract. "Well," he began, until he heard Sam whine, and saw his brother give him the sort of expression of betrayal usually only seen on canine faces when a dog is told 'Walkies!' then ends up going to the vet. "It's, uh," he scratched his head. "Sorry. Dicks before chicks. You know how it is."

"Fine," she gave them all that dangerous smile again. "Well, you can explain it to me yourselves, as soon as you're human again." She glared at Andrew, and Dean wondered if he could actually smell fur starting to smoulder.

With a pained sigh, the older werewolf pulled himself upright, and concentrated.

Then conspicuously failed to shapeshift back to human.

Ronnie cocked an eyebrow. "I see," she nodded, "And what about you, pup? You figured out how to flick the switch – can you flick it back?"

Sam sat up straight, gave her his best Good Dog Carl resolute whuff, closed his eyes, let out a slow breath…

And nothing happened.

"So," Ronnie went on, "Not only have you inherited your sire's capacity for hijinks at inappropriate times, you've also got his 'get stuck' trait."

"We did do beer," Dean helpfully held aloft the evidence with a winning smile.

"Great. Just great." She waved her arms. "In other families, people say, 'Oh, what a shame he got his father's hair, or his father's nose', you idiots would be enough to keep a whole facultyful of geneticists and molecular biologists occupied or tearing out their hair for years…"

As she spoke, she shucked out of her clothes, then began to stomp towards the males, shapeshifting as she went. The chattering, scolding noises didn't stop once she was lupine. The males offered greeting-sniffs, and she cuffed both of them on the ears with a huffing sound that was redolent with exasperation.

Taking hold of Andrew's paws in her own, she whuffed more calmly, apparently coaching him, while Sam watched intently. There was a strange effect, like a holographic toy where two images swap back and forth as the image is tilted, but suddenly Andrew snapped back into his human form.

He looked down at himself. "Ta-dah!" he announced cheerfully.

Ronnie rolled her eyes and turned to Sam. _Now you, pup,_ her rumble said clearly.

Sam looked every inch the attentive student as Ronnie took his paws, and began to prompt him. He concentrated hard…

And nothing happened.

Whining with frustration – Sam had never been happy about not being able to pick up something quickly – he tried again, as Ronnie and Andrew offered encouragement.

It didn't work.

Ronnie shifted back to human. "Well," she sighed, as Sam sagged with the shame of failure, "I suppose we'll just have to wait until…"

With incredible speed, she was suddenly the wolf again, turning and bellowing a savage snarl at Sam.

With a yelp, he jumped, and fell backwards.

By the time his ass hit the ground, he was human again.

Andrew reached down and offered him a hand, pulling him to his feet. "Was it really necessary to scare the pup like that?" he asked.

"Yes," Ronnie snapped. "It worked. Now, I really am dying to know why you pair of bozos were mucking around out here." She glared at Dean. "And why you let them?"

"Why I…. what?" Dean gawped. "Hey, they were the ones who were so keen on doin' the hand thing, then they changed! What was I supposed to do, squirt them with a squirt bottle? Whack 'em with a rolled-up newspaper?" He looked around and fidgeted. "Uh, look, before this goes any further, do you think you people could go in and put some clothes on?"

Andrew shrugged. "Well, you know how it is," he told Ronnie, "He was just lookin' at his hands, and wondering what sort of a wolf he'd look like, so…"

She turned to Sam. "So you decided to experiment," she concluded sourly. "A little bit of werewolf puberty self-exploration, perhaps?"

Sam flushed. "I thought I had control of it," he defended himself, "I could… I could feel what to do, and I did my arms, and, and, well, you know…"

"Because standin' out here," Dean went on, "With you people, uh, you know, it's kinda weird…"

"Let me guess," Ronnie held up a hand, "You were playing with it, and it felt so good, you just had to see how it ended, is that it?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam shifted uncomfortably at the choice of metaphor.

"And you let him do that?" she turned back to Andrew. "You encouraged it?"

"…And while I'm all in favour of letting it all hang out, so to speak, I'm not really in favour of letting it _all_ hang out, well, not in front of me, anyway…"

"He was gonna try it sooner or later," Andrew answered, "He's Sam. Better he does it here, with one of us to help."

"And a great help you turned out to be," muttered Ronnie. "What if somebody had seen you?"

"We bought this place because nobody can," he reminded her. "Ronnie, there's no harm done."

"…And you gotta be gettin' cold without the fur coats, so if you could just see your way clear to putting on some human clothes, on your human bodies…"

"He got stuck!" she was adamant, "What if he'd stayed stuck? And what if he hadn't been cognate to start with?"

"I am Alpha," Andrew said with quiet authority, "And I would have made him submit."

"Yeah?" she wasn't mollified. "Did you look at him? You must've. He's Alpha material himself. What if he'd decided to have a go at asserting himself, a bit of teenage rebellion?"

"…Because standin' here, the only one with clothes on, it's, uh, it's kind of weird…"

"I'd have put him in his place," Andrew went on with that quiet surety. "And it didn't happen."

"What if it had?" Ronnie hissed at her mate. "What if it had? What if he'd turned on his brother?"

"He didn't," Andrew rumbled. "Ronnie, let it go. Everything's cool." He gave her a small smile. "Pups leave the den."

"… Like I'm in S_tar Trek_, and our shuttle has crashed on the Planet Of The Birthday Suits, which wouldn't be such a bad thing if there were just hot alien women…"

"Ronnie, I'm sorry," Sam began, "I didn't think it would be…"

"No, you didn't think," she snapped. "Men. You're all idiots!"

Sam tried to explain. "I didn't mean to wolf out, I just wondered…"

It wasn't cutting any ice with Ronnie. "Oh, and we know what good intentions pave the way to, don't we?"

"…And frankly, it's bad enough havin' to look at my brother's junk when he's a, uh, werewolf…"

"Never trust something that can't even pair up its chromosomes properly!" scowled Ronnie, turning to head back towards the house.

"Well, that went better than expected," observed Andrew cheerily.

Sam stared after her. "She's not really angry, is she?" he said, "She doesn't smell angry. She smells… scared."

Andrew smiled. "Her own first experiences with the shapeshift weren't good," he reminded them, "She's… worried for you. She'll get over it. Never picked her as the helicopter mom type. Never picked her as the mom type, full stop; kids were never part of the plan, really."

"…So will you please go in and put some clothes on and STOP PARADIN' AROUND NAKED!"

Sam and Andrew turned to Dean, whose voice had risen to s squawk.

"We're not 'parading around naked'," Sam replied, "We're just standing here."

"And anyway, we're not 'naked'," Andrew added, "We just don't have any clothes on."

Dean stared at them. "Ronnie's right!" he snapped, "You are impossible!" He stomped off towards the house, with Jimi following him.

Sam blinked. "Uh, I think he might actually be angry," he mused.

Andrew put a hand on his shoulder. "Youngster, I think you'll find that once they've worked their ways through a Texan Table steak, their demeanours will be much improved," he assured the younger man.

Sam smiled. "I think she'd make a wonderful mom," he confided. "And you'd make a great dad."

The back door banged open. "Get your sorry arses in here and get ready!" yelled Ronnie.

"The alpha female summons us," intoned Andrew.

The door banged open again. "And for fuck's sake put some damned pants on!" yelled Dean.

"And so does the asshole male," sighed Sam.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Andrew was right; just being at the steakhouse improved Dean and Ronnie's outlook on… well, everything. Dean beamed like a kid being shown the counter of a new candy store.

"Look at this!" he chirped happily at the Texan Table Challenge, a 72-ounce steak plus trimmings, "Tonight, I eat for free!"

"Well, you can," Andrew confirmed, "After we did it the first couple of times, we thought it might be polite to pay."

"We like this place," Ronnie confirmed, "We don't want to put it out of business. Besides, it's nice just to take your time, and enjoy a meal."

Sam glanced up at the 'honour board', where the names 'A. Jaeger' and 'V. Shepherd' were at the top of the list. "So, you're the only two to break the eight minute mark," he commented.

"So far," Ronnie grinned, as a waitress with a lovely smile and an even more lovely rack drifted over, "Hiya Karen."

"Hi Ronnie and Andrew!" the young lady greeted them, "You got visitors?"

"This is Dean, and Sam," Andrew introduced the Winchesters, "And they're here to take the Challenge."

"Well, I hope you've got a big appetite!" Karen the waitress smiled.

Dean let the Killer Smile slide into place. "Oh, you got no idea," he purred.

"I'm really looking forward to it," Sam nodded.

Karen gave him a smile. "Well, I'm just dying to see you in action," she said, heading back for the kitchen.

"I like her," leered Dean, watching her retreating form. "All of her."

"You are incorrigible," humphed Ronnie.

It took three waitresses to bring out their meals and all the accompaniments, and Karen announced, "So, are you gonna do this inside the hour, or do you think you can knock this guy off top spot?" she jerked a thumb at Andrew with a grin.

Sam gave her a brilliant smile, picked up his knife and fork, and replied, "Karen – start the clock."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It started off normally enough: Sam was a big guy, so it didn't surprise anybody that he tucked into the giant piece of meat with gusto. What was surprising was the speed with which the steak was disappearing.

"Oh, thish ish sho good," he hummed happily, tearing at a piece with his teeth.

"Dude!" Dean hissed, "Teeth!"

"Huh?" Sam looked at him, taking another bite of steak.

"Your teeth!" Ronnie muttered, "Your canines have popped out! Reel 'em back in!"

"What?" Sam put a hand to his face, and felt the long fangs protruding. "Oh, fuck," he fumbled for his napkin, wiping at his face to hide them, and concentrating hard to retract them. "Sorry," he said, "Got lost in the moment."

"You're only allowed to use human teeth," Andrew told him, "Wolf teeth is cheating." Sam nodded, and turned back to his meal.

It was like, well, it was like watching Jimi eat, Dean thought vaguely as he made his way through his own meal in a rather more leisurely manner. He'd never seen his little brother enjoy a piece of rare meat so much, along with a big serve of fries, and sides.

At the five minute mark, people at other tables started to watch.

At the six minute mark, people at other tables started to cheer him on, and the proprietor came out to watch.

"Seven minutes gone!" announced Karen, as Sam shovelled down another forkful of beans and washed them down with a mouthful of beer, "And closing in on the record!"

At seven minutes thirty, other patrons were chanting "Eat! Eat! Eat!" as he tore up the bread roll to wipe his plate, then crammed the last piece into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, took another mouthful of beer…

Sam threw his hands in air, and burped heartily to a round of applause. Karen handed the stop-watch to her boss.

"Finished in… seven minutes fifty-three seconds!" he announced. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new finisher in second place!"

Ronnie yowled in feigned outrage at being displaced from second place on the board as the restaurant cheered.

"Well done!" Karen said, "Would you like another drink while the others finish, since you're done?"

Sam gave her a grin that was pure mischief. "Who says I'm done?" he said cheekily.

Karen's face was a picture of disbelief. "Oh my God, you cannot still be hungry after finishing the Texas Table!"

Still smiling, Sam told her, "I am, and I want you to bring me another."

The crowd went wild.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was a great night, Dean decided, the sort of night the Winchesters didn't get often enough. Good food, good company, a chance just to put down the tool box, and enjoy some down time. It would've been even better if he could've gotten Karen's phone number, but hey, he'd probably feel happier keeping an eye on his baby brother anyway…

"So, I thought tomorrow we could…" Dean barged into their room, and found Sam on the phone; his little brother held up a hand to forestall him.

"Yeah, that'd be great. So, uh, see you then. Yeah. Bye."

"Who was that?" asked Dean.

"Karen," Sam replied, "From the steakhouse." He held up a napkin with a phone number on it. "She gave me this. Hey, uh, would it be okay if I borrow the car?"

* * *

Dean will be bursting with pride. And questions, no doubt...

Keep feeding Mavgang those wonderful reviews that wiya loves so much, because Reviews are The Delicious Steak Dinners With Waffle Fries* And The Trimmings In The Steakhouse Of Life!

*I've only just been introduced to waffle fries; they are so sinfully delicious, I'm pretty sure that Crowley himself must've invented them.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Andrew gazed across the table at Dean over breakfast the next morning. "I haven't seen an expression like that since my Dad watched as I won Player Of The Year in my under-tens baseball club," he remarked.

"What's not to be proud?" smiled Dean, "My little brother got laid last night! And this morning, I hope."

"You know, what he gets up to in his own time is really not your business," Ronnie chided him.

"Of course it's my business!" stated Dean adamantly. "It's totally my business! I'm his big brother, and it's my job to look after him! And that means makin' sure that he gets all the things that a healthy guy needs, food, sleep, booze, and frisky women."

"This may come as a shock to you," Ronnie went on, "But no human being has ever died of not having sex. And before you say anything," she waved the spatula at her pair-bond, "Werewolves don't die of celibacy either."

"They might," replied Andrew wistfully, "You don't know that. Do you wanna run that risk?"

Dean shook his head vigorously. "Bad idea."

"It didn't do me any harm for forty years," she pointed out.

"It did too," Dean countered, "It made you as cranky as hell."

"Idiots." She cocked her head. "Sounds like he's headed this way now."

The Impala rumbled into the drive, and Jimi and Joni went outside to greet Sam.

"Don't get on his case, Dean," warned Ronnie, "He doesn't need to be teased about it. He's an adult, after all."

"Sammy!" Dean beamed hugely at his brother, "So, how many rounds was it? Was she a screamer? If you didn't make her toes curl at least twice, you aint a proper Winchester..."

"Jerk," said Sam without rancor, sitting down, "None of your business." He paused. "Not so much a screamer as a howler."

"Oooooh," went Andrew, as Ronnie let out a bark of outrage. "Funny you should say that, becaus-OW!" An egg cup, thrown with deadly accuracy, hit him in the ear. "Sorry, dear."

Dean's eyebrows danced with lecherous delight. "So, was she... bendy?"

"Seriously, bro," Sam rolled his eyes, "Not gonna discuss it." He made a hopeful yipping noise, and Ronnie put some more bacon into the pan. "Would you expect a gentleman to tell you?"

"No," Dean admitted, "But I want my brother to."

"Well, not particularly flexible, but imaginative."

"Sam!" yapped Ronnie.

"Whoa!" Andrew held up a hand, "I gotta go with the lady of the den on that one, veering close to too much information, kids."

Sam resisted Dean's efforts to pump him for further details, and headed for his laptop after breakfast.

"I think I found us a job," he announced later in the day. "Those disappearances I was checking out? There's something... weird goin' on."

"How weird?" asked Dean, immediately all business.

"Well, there have been half a dozen so far," Sam went on, "I was looking for any sort of connecting factor – five women and one guy who've gone have all been about the same age, and I've confirmed that three of them have done some sort of modelling work before, not as professionals, but as a bit of a sideline, a bit of extra money, as well as a regular job."

"Could just be a common or garden human freak who likes pretty girls," noted Dean, playing devil's advocate, "And decided to branch out just for the fun of it. Either that, or the guy was one who wears eyeliner and looks like a chick, now that counts as weird..."

"That's what the authorities think," Sam agreed, "And on the face of it, it could be." He turned the laptop so Dean could see it. "The modelling agency? They call themselves 'Real People'. They don't just employ your typical – or should I say atypical – glossy magazine fashion shoot models, they got people of all ages, shapes and sizes on their books. They can find you a bikini model to launch your new range of swimwear; they can also find you a grandmother for a soup commercial, a cute kid with big ears for your health insurance brochure, an old man with unusual features for an art class to paint, even an amputee or someone with scars for your student medical illustrators to practise drawing."

"So, could be somebody connected to the agency?" Dean wondered. "Still doesn't make it necessarily a job for us."

Sam opened another window. "It's in Portland, got a lot of people on its books. Prior to that, there was another business – called 'All Of Us' – in California. Did much the same thing, and successfully, but then, it just closed down. It was a financially successful business, but it just shut up shop. Prior to that," he opened another window, "There was 'EveryBody' in Arizona. Same M.O. And before that, 'Common People' in Utah. And before _that_, 'We're America', in Colodado. And before _that_, 'Everyman', in Texas. The info gets patchier as you go back, but all of them were successful businesses that just shut down. There's breaks of no more than a couple of months between one closing down, and the next one start up."

"So, a serial modelling agency?" Dean frowned at the screen. "Covering, what," he looked at Sam's list, pattern recognition algorithms whizzing through his head, "Sixty years or so? Each one in or near a major city. They run for about ten years, then close, and move to the next state?"

"Looks like it," confirmed Sam. "And get this." He opened one more document. "Just before each one closed down, there was a series of disappearances. I can't confirm that they were all people on those agencies' books, the info just isn't available online, but in each case, at least some of 'em were." He clicked on a link that opened a black and white photo of a young lady wearing a floppy hat and a come-hither smile, taken sometime in the sixties if the outfit she was wearing was anything to judge by.

"Wow," Dean smiled, "I bet she was into free love."

"They all look like this," Sam went on, with a passing Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One). "Women, and some men: young, attractive, the 'in' look of the time. Of course, young people packing up and moving to chase a modelling career, of itself, isn't exactly strange."

"Until their families lose contact, and realise that something is wrong," grunted Dean. "This current agency in Portland has been goin' for about ten years. You think they could be fixing to do the same thing? Sixty years is a long time for somebody to do this."

He swore briefly under his breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So. I'll call Bobby, tell him that you're sending him everything you've got – he'll know if there's somebody in the area to look into it..."

"What?" Sam looked up. "Dean, we're only a few hours away – we should go check it out."

"Sam, I understand, I really do," Dean told him, "The idea of checking out a job where hot chicks are involved, I'm totally on board with that, but we gotta think about your, uh, condition."

"I'm fine," Sam insisted, "I'm all healed up. I'm ready to get back on the road."

"I aint talkin' about your injuries, Sam," Dean shot back, "I mean your, uh, well, your little problem with excess body hair."

"That isn't a problem," Sam countered, "We got, what, more than a week until the full moon, that's plenty of time to go check this out."

"I really think we should stay here until you're, you know, your old self," Dean reiterated.

"What is this?" Sam waved his arms in exasperation. "You're worried about my delicate condition? Dean, it's not like I'm pregnant!"

"Who's not pregnant?" asked Ronnie, bringing a plate of brownies into the living room.

"Me," answered Sam, nabbing a brownie.

"Well, thank fuck for that," she remarked. "Actually, no, what a shame, if you were pregnant, we could put you in a cage and charge admission – roll up, roll up, and see the world's first pregnant man! We'd make a fortune!" She eyed him critically. "We'd probably have to let your pants out a fair way, though. Maybe make you some nice plaid maternity smocks..."

"What I'm getting at," Sam replied, with a roll of his eyes, "Is that I think I've found us a job, and Dean is worried that this poor little werewolf is not fit to Hunt."

"Heh heh," chuckled Andrew, strolling in and helping himself to a brownie, "Be careful who you say that in front of." He sampled the treat with evident enjoyment. "Although, wolves hunt with their pack right up until they whelp, and very soon afterwards, so even if you were pregnant, you could still probably..."

"Oh, God," sighed Dean, "I'm just... look, what happens if he wolfs out in the middle of a job?"

"I won't," insisted Sam, taking another brownie. "It takes concentration and deliberate effort to, uh, 'flick the switch'."

"Well, what if something else 'flicks your switch'?" demanded Dean. "What if we find that it's something we gotta use silver on, huh? What are you gonna do then?"

"Dean, I know you always got my back, I'll be fine," Sam said firmly.

"But what if you're not?" Dean persisted, "What if..."

_What if something happens and I'm not enough?_

_What if you need... your pack?_

"The full moon's less than a fortnight away," Ronnie noted, "You know you're welcome to stay here until then."

"If you want to," Andrew added. Ronnie shot him a look, and he gazed back serenely. "You're guests here, not prisoners."

The look and the rumble that Ronnie gave him suggested that she didn't entirely agree. Sam let out a sharp bark, she turned to bare her teeth at him, whilst Andrew just grinned.

Dean's breath caught; he'd been about to ask trenchantly for a translation, but realised he didn't need it – he'd seen that exact 'conversation' play out before, culminating with Sam's complaint.

_I'm not a damned puppy! Don't talk about me as if I'm not even here!_

Great. Veronica Shepherd was channelling John Winchester. And Sam Winchester wasn't interested.

"You cannot be condoning him heading out on a Hunt," Ronnie huffed at her husband.

"Whether or not I condone it is irrelevant," Andrew replied, with the same quiet authority he'd used to tell her that Sam's exploration of the shapeshift was not a problem. "He's an adult, and he's capable of making his own decisions."

"Do something!" she hissed.

"What would you suggest?" asked Andrew in an even tone, "Chain him to the wall? Lock him in a closet? Put him in a box, perhaps?"

"You are Alpha here!" she snapped.

"Yes," Andrew agreed, "I am."

Dean found that his heart went out to her, even as his own sank – she was worried about his baby brother.

Andrew put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm his Alpha, not his jailer," he reminded her. "Pups leave the den."

"Yeah, when they're ready, when they know what they're doing..." she sounded resigned even as she protested.

"We aint goin' anywhere until you got more intel on this job," growled Dean, "Until we know there's a connection between these groups of disappearances."

"Good," Andrew grinned, "That will give Sam more time to practise getting a handle on the shapeshift." He stretched and grabbed another brownie. "I need to move the work bench in the basement."

"That giant chunk of hardwood?" Sam asked. "You'll never move that by yourself, the thing weighs a ton!"

"You're right," Andrew agreed, "Definitely not a one-man job. But two werewolves..."

Ronnie knew defeat when she saw it grinning at her. "You might as well as pull the gun safe out while you're down there," she sighed, "I'm sure there's something gnawed a hole behind it and crawled in and died."

"Practice, and housekeeping, both at once," noted Sam, beaming angelically.

"That's just how domesticated the males of this pack are," added Andrew.

Sam shut his laptop, grabbed more brownies, and followed Andrew out of the room.

Dean stared after them. "Have we just been double-teamed?" he asked.

"By experts," she growled.

"I'll kill them both," Dean griped.

"I'll hold, you stab," Ronnie offered.

There was a crash from the basement, and a yelp of pain. Ronnie smiled just a little sadistically.

"That's the thing about paws," she observed, "It takes a bit of practice to use them to hold things."

Dean dropped heavily into a chair. "I was gonna spend some time with my Baby today," he said, "But now I'm gonna worry about Sam dropping heavy objects on himself."

"He'll be fine," Ronnie waved a hand. "Go on. I'll even bring you coffee."

"Thanks."

Jimi sprang to his feet, ready to follow his Alpha, nose in the air as he sniffed at the plate of brownies.

"Well, at least you do what you're told, huh?" Dean grinned. Jimi sat up obediently, and raised a paw in supplication, so Dean broke off a piece of brownie for him, and shoved the rest into his own mouth. "You're easy to keep hap-BLARGH!" he spat out his mouthful, and yelled in indignation, "Oh, gross, that one was liver! RONNIE!"

* * *

Fuddruckers? Fuddruckers? There's a hamburger chain called Fuddruckers? I'll bet the joke never gets old for Dean... do they do waffle fries?

So, Sam has got his way, the evil little manipulator. Provided he doesn't drop his end of the work bench on his foot, or something.

Feed the plot bunny those delicious reviews, because Reviews Are The Delicious Brownies Brought To You When You Are Pondering The Weird Shenanigans Of Life!*

*No liver ones unless you're a dog or a werewolf (or my obedience instructor) and you enjoy them.


	15. Chapter 14

Maternity smocks; maternity socks. An easy misreading to make. But, Guest, really - knocked-up Sam in socks in box? No wonder you weren't game to leave your name.

See Sam in his plaid grid smocks.  
See Sam in his plaid grid socks.  
Sam in socks shoved into box.  
Sam in box goes into shocks.  
Sam in socks without his smocks.  
See the fangirls swarm in flocks!  
See Dean check each box - he knocks.  
Look out, or he'll clean your clocks!

"Who said Sam has been knocked up?  
Who says Sam is now in pup?  
He is not! Not even maybe!  
There will be no Sam assbaby!  
Let my brother out right now!  
Leahelisabeth, you cow!  
Do not stuff poor Sam in there!  
No! You may not pet his hair!

Do not pet him on the head!  
Do not pet him in your bed!  
Do not pet him at a bar!  
Do not pet him in the spa!  
Do not pet him in the park!  
Do not pet him in the dark!  
Do not pet him after class!  
Do not pet him on the ass!

Do not try to pet him there!  
Do not try to pet him bare!  
Do not pet him without shirt!  
Do not pet him when he's hurt!  
Do not pet him on the chest!  
Do not pet him when undressed!  
I am angry, yes I am,  
Do not pet my brother Sam!"

I need another cup of tea.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

Even from underneath his Baby, Dean heard the huff of frustration – it was really kind of amusing how much frustrated wolf-Sam sounded like frustrated human-Sam.

"It takes time," he heard Ronnie say patiently, "Cut yourself some slack."

There was more grumpy rumbling, and Dean heard her laugh.

"Yeah, but I've been doing it for more than twenty years!" she said, "That's a lot of practice. And I can grab something, or use a knife; I'll never write, or fire a gun."

He crawled out from under the car to be greeted once more by the incongruous sight of a massive, shaggy werewolf – his massive, shaggy brother – towering over Ronnie by at least eighteen inches as she held his enormous paw in her hands.

"This little bugger is the problem," she stated, poking at his innermost claw, "It doesn't know if it's a thumb, or a dew claw. So the whole opposable digit thing is really difficult. You're designed to slash and kill, not make watches." She hooked her hand carefully around the offending appendage. "Now, pull against my hand. No, don't use your arm, that's cheating, here, use the base of your claw..."

The wolf whined, and shook its head. Ronnie whuffed to Sam, and he huffed, then tried again.

"So, you're built like a duffel full of watermelons, and you gotta work out your thumbs," Dean grinned as he opened a beer. Sam looked up, stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry at his big brother.

"You want that translated?" asked Ronnie solicitously.

"Nah, I think I got it," smirked Dean, throwing his brother a beer. Sam fumbled it, but caught it against his chest; carefully, he took hold of it, then with great concentration, popped a claw through the end and bit into it, slurping away at the contents.

"Oh, you mucky devil," Ronnie muttered, wiping at the dribbles on Sam's pelt with the sleeve of her overshirt, "I see you can get the whole grip thing happening when there's beer involved. Funnily enough, that was the first thing Andrew mastered, too."

"Yeah?" queried Dean, "And what was the first thing you mastered?"

"The shapeshift," she replied haughtily, "So I could drink it properly. And not spill any."

Sam finished, licked his chops, and burped contentedly.

"And that," Ronnie screwed her face up in disgust, "Is a dick thing."

"What's a dick thing?" asked Andrew, "Can I smell beer?"

"Burping. And the thing with the beer," Dean told him, "Ronnie says it's a dick thing."

"Really?" Andrew mused thoughtfully. "Did it ever occur to you to wonder who showed me how to shotgun beers while on four legs?"

"I'm going in to check on lunch," muttered Ronnie.

"How you doin', pup?" Andrew looked up at Sam, who sighed, and drooped, and peered dejectedly at his paw. "Yeah, tough gig, huh? Like learnin' to wiggle your ears, or twitch your nose." He shucked out the plaid shirt he was wearing. "Practising like this helped me – kinda like physio for werewolves..."

He twisted the shirt into a short length for Sam to try to grab, but his brother was having trouble making his paws do what was needed.

"Here, Dean," the older man handed the shirt to Dean, "Would you mind?"

"Uh, no, no," Dean took it, "Go ahead."

"Great." Andrew ditched the rest of his clothes, and shifted. Whuffing in encouragement, he held out his own huge paw, and demonstrated taking hold of the shirt, and getting enough grip to pull on it.

"Try it, Sam," Dean encouraged, as Sam fumbled at the shirt. There was a moment where he almost got hold of it; then, there was the sound of ripping fabric.

"Oh. Er." Dean held up the shirt and peered through the four gaping rents down the back. "Well, I guess it'll be comfortable in Summer. I mean, the pre-distressed look is really in right now, aint it? So at least you'll be fashionable."

Sam tried a few more times, and finally actually managed to get hold of the shirt, and pull against his brother, then yank the shirt away from him entirely.

"Way to go, Toto!" enthused Dean, while Andrew nudged at Sam happily. Sam nudged back, and held out the shirt. Andrew grinned doggily, took hold of the other end...

And the tug-of-war was on.

"Uh, guys," Dean began, as the two werewolves spun and woofed in amusement, looking and sounding very much like Jimi and either of his sisters playing with the old rope toy Dean had made for them when they were just pups, "That might not be a real good idea, because that shirt is already..."

With a prolongued _rrrrrrrrrrrrrrip_, the shirt underwent a traumatic radical bisection.

If the wolves' reaction was anything to go by, it was the funniest thing since the last time a congressman had stood up and said he was sorry for cheating on his wife. The tug-of-war degenerated into a rassling bout.

Barking happily, Jimi and Joni joined in.

Dean looked at his watch. "Er, look, I don't mean to bust your bubble," he said, completely failing to gain their attention, "But Ronnie will be callin' us in for lunch soon, and I don't think she'll be terribly impressed if you're, you know, not able to use cutlery."

Sam paused, and threw half the shirt at Dean.

"Oh, you little bitch," scowled Dean, marching up to his brother, "I oughta kick your..."

He paused, and craned his neck to look up at his brother, who looked down with a quizzical expression, and made an interrogative noise.

"That's actually a damned good question," Dean said thoughtfully, contemplating the broad expanse of his brother's chest, "If I was gonna hit a werewolf, where should I aim?"

Andrew barked gruffly, and Sam stood up straight, arms at his side. Andrew patted him just below the sternum.

"Yeah?" Dean was hesitant, but put out a hand and found the bottom of his brother's breastbone. "That's further down than I would've thought," he remarked. "So, if I'm ever in a last-ditch, got-nothin'-to-lose death-match with a pissed Old North wolf, that's the spot I should aim for?"

Andrew nodded, as Sam poked experimentally at his own stomach.

Dean shrugged philosophically. "Well, if I'm this close to a werewolf, I'm as good as dead anyway," he reasoned, "So it's nice to know that there's a spot where I can make the bastard sorry he ate me."

Sam made a face just like the one that Jimi had pulled the first time he'd ever been to the beach, and had tasted salt water. The message was clear: _You'd taste so disgusting, he'll be sorry anyway._

"You know, I've never had any complaints," Dean smirked smugly, "And the generous deployment of chocolate sauce can always be..."

Sam let out an anguished howl, then turned to bury his face in the older wolf's shoulder, as Andrew performed a recognisable facepalm.

"Fellas!" Ronnie called from the back door, "I'm just about ready to... oh, for fuck's sake, what are you doing?"

Andrew whuffed cheerfully, as Sam grinned.

"Well, get human!" she ordered. Andrew pulled himself up as tall as he could, and saluted. She flipped him the big vee, and ducked back inside.

"Lunch calls," Dean chirped happily, "So, ditch the fur coats guys."

Andrew humphed, and concentrated, whilst Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Wow," said Dean enthusiastically, "That smells really good!"

"Yes," replied Ronnie, in a tone as icy as the atmosphere of the room, "It's one of my favourites. My Gammer used to make it for me whenever I was sick."

Dean looked down into the large baking dish as she put it on the table, and plastered the smile firmly onto his face. "That looks wonderful. Just as good as it smells. Doesn't it, guys?" he prompted in a bright voice.

Sam and Andrew, having folded their huge frames uncomfortably onto the chairs, whined ingratiatingly.

"I've always loved Pig In A Poke," Dean nodded vigorously, doing the best he could to keep up the males' end of the conversation in a human language, "Very tasty. Very filling. Very, uh, you know... foody."

"I know it as Toad In The Hole," Ronnie told him with chilly pleasantness, "I always use twice as many sausages as the recipe calls for, and make sure they're good sausages." She bent to a kitchen drawer, and took out what appeared to be a tablecloth. Andrew sat submissively as she stood behind him, and tied it around his neck like a giant bib. "I made onion gravy, or do you like it with sauce? Ketchup, to you."

"Oh, er, gravy sounds, er, yeah, gravy would be good," stuttered Dean, watching as Sam had his bib fastened in place. His baby brother let out a small growl of protest; Ronnie let out a snarl that made him yelp, and flatten his ears."

"So," she went on with a smile that was more like a baring of teeth, "I won't bother putting a bib on you, Dean, because you are human, and don't _need _one, because you are capable of _eating_ your lunch without _wearing_ it."

"Uh, yeah, yeah," Dean just agreed, "Yeah, that's... yeah."

Ronnie dished up a generous serving of golden fluffy baked pudding, bristling with sausages, and put it in front of Dean.

"Don't wait," she told him, "Start before it gets cold. Just pick up your _knife and fork_, and eat it like a _civilised person_..."

Rather than say anything, Dean dug in.

She dished up several large pieces to Sam and Andrew, and put the plates in front of them. Andrew looked at his, and whined.

"What was that, dear?" she asked solicitously, "Oh, the gravy. Certainly." She put the jug down in front of him. "There you are." He looked up at her with Big Brown Eyes. "Oh, but you're an _adult_," she told him, "You _know_ what you're doing; I'm sure you're capable of pouring your own gravy. Oh, and incidentally, if you spill it, you are not leaving this table until you lick up _every last molecule_..."

Andrew sighed sadly, looked at the gravy longingly, then carefully reached to pick up a piece of his dinner and bite into it as tidily as possible.

"Um, why don't I be mother and pour?" suggested Dean, picking up the jug to pour for the two wolves. They quietly whuffed their thanks.

"Yes, you do that," she allowed, sitting down to her own dinner, "Since you have actual _hands _and_ opposable thumbs_."

Dean sighed. "Look, Ronnie, I just know they're sorry, Andrew was tryin' to help Sam, and I was the one who encouraged the whole tug-of-war thing, we're sorry about the shirt, aren't we, guys?"

"They're lucky I don't make them eat outside," Ronnie growled, frowning as a chunk of Sam's dinner fell down his front and onto his improvised bib. "And hose them down afterwards."

"Oh, harsh," commented Dean, taking another mouthful.

Lunch was completed under Ronnie's disapproving glare, and afterwards, they tried once again to shift back to human.

"It's no good," humphed Ronnie, after failing to prompt either Andrew or Sam to resume human form, "They're really stuck."

"What does that mean?" asked Dean anxiously.

"Relax," she rolled her eyes, "Sometimes, he just... I don't know, I think it might have something to do with having the youngster here." Andrew had the grace to look embarrassed. "It's either because he wants to protect him, or because he's got a partner-in-crime now, so to speak." She humphed. "When this happens, confine your werewolf to the living room, turn on the TV, and administer beer."

"Sounds like a plan," Dean said as cheerfully as he could as she shooed them out of the kitchen. "Although lookin' at the size of you, bro," he said to Sam, "I don't know how much protectin' you need." He glanced at back over his shoulder. "Well, except maybe from an angry momma wolf..."

"I heard that!" snapped Ronnie from the kitchen.

They followed orders: Dean found a football game, and passed out the beers. The wolves arranged themselves on the sofas, and Dean took a chair, and they sat watching the game for a while.

At half time, Sam stood up, stretched carefully, and whined.

"What?" asked Dean, "You want more beer? I'll go get it, it's probably better if Ronnie doesn't see you..."

Sam shook his head, and whined again.

"You still hungry?" tried Dean, "You did spill a lot of your dinner, bro, but maybe I can get you..."

With a small annoyed huff, Sam carefully crossed his legs.

"Oh. Oh!" Dean realised what the problem was. "So, uh, you need to, er..." he swallowed. "Are you gonna, you know, can you, um, look, do you have any idea how good your aim is likely to be, because if you make a mess, Ronnie is likely to rub your nose in it..."

Sam made his way to the back door, pawed at it ineffectively, and yipped urgently.

Dean got up. "Great," he muttered, "Just great, I gotta let my baby brother out into the yard so he can go potty. Fuck my life." He opened the door, and Sam bounded away into the trees. "If you cock your leg on my car I will end you!" he yelled.

Sam was back a couple of minutes later, then the game resumed, and more beer was deployed.

"I hope something happens before tonight," Dean remarked, "Because seriously, I don't think you'll fit in the bed like that, and I'm betting that Ronnie will make you sleep outside in the kennel, so..."

Andrew suddenly shook his head, yapped once... and snapped into his human form.

"Oh, thank fuck for that," he sighed, examining his hands. "I don't have to go outside, but she makes me sleep on the floor..."

There was another yip, as Sam suddenly returned to human too. "Oh, God," he moaned, "I couldn't find the switch, and the angrier she got, the harder it was..."

"Well, we're human now," Andrew stated, "That's the important thing. No floor for us." He reached out and picked up another beer. "And no shotgunning."

"Amen," added Sam fervently, taking a beer for himself. "That Pig In A Poke was pretty damned good, though. I wonder if there's any left?"

"Er, guys," began Dean.

Andrew sniffed. "Yeah, there's leftovers," he said, "It tastes pretty good cold, too – she usually makes a second tray of it."

Sam's stomach rumbled. "I am still a bit hungry," he admitted.

"Well, you did drop a lot of your dinner down your bib," chortled Andrew. Then his amusement subsided. "Come to think of it, so did I."

"Yeah, but guys," Dean tried again.

"Will she get mad if I go and ask for more, do you think?" Sam queried.

"Are you kidding?" Andrew grinned, "She doesn't stay mad, especially once you're shifted back. You're the pup here, just turn on those Big Brown Eyes, and she'll shovel another plateful out for you and pour the gravy herself."

Sam smiled. "Cool," he commented. "You want some?"

"Seriously, guys," Dean persisted.

"Actually, I would like some more," Andrew decided. "Maybe if we go together, present a united, penitent front, we'll hardly get bawled out at all."

"Worth a try," Sam ageed, standing up. "We need more beer, too."

The two of them headed for the kitchen, and Sam turned back to his brother. "Hey, Dean, you want some more Pig In A Poke?"

"Yeah, I'd like that," Dean nodded, "But first of all..."

"More beer?" prompted Andrew.

"Well, that too," answered Dean, "But..."

"We're on it," Sam assured him, "Hang tight, bro, we'll be right back."

Dean gawped after them. "Hey! HEY!" he yelled. "For fuck's sake go and put some damned pants on!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam and Andrew were forgiven once they were human again, and Sam spent the rest of the day on the laptop, researching the job he'd found.

"This cannot be a coincidence," he declared over dinner. "Each time the modelling agency disappears, then a new one reappears, the name of the manager, or CEO, or whatever you want to call the head honcho, hasn't changed much: it's been Black, Sable, Noire, Jett, Nigra, Negru..."

"Variations on a theme," acknowledged Dean, "And unimaginative. Which may not be a bad thing; if it is a job for us, then a bad guy who can't think very originally will be in our favour." He made a decision. "Okay, we roll out tomorrow. But you gotta be careful, Sam. We might not be the only Hunters who've spotted this job; if we cross paths with another one who's any good, it could be a problem for you, if he's the shoot-the-werewolf-first-and-don't-bother-to-ask-any-questions-afterwards type."

"I knew a guy like that once," offered Andrew around a mouthful of meat, "A real asshole. But his brother was a good guy, and he drove a really cool car..."

"You call us if anything happens," Ronnie stated, as Dean flipped Andrew off. "If you get stuck, if you get hurt, you call us. And make sure you get your sorry arses back here by the last night of the full moon, to do the countercurse."

"We will," Sam assured her, shovelling more meat onto his plate. "Don't worry."

"Don't worry, he says," she humphed. "Crap. Is this what my mother went through when I went Hunting with Dad? I owe her a written apology."

"He's a big boy, Ronnie," Andrew murmured. "More than capable of looking after himself."

"And Dean's always got my back," added Sam, with a quick grin at his big brother.

After dinner, with Ronnie having made a most unsubtle remark about the state of his shirt, Dean investigated the contents of his duffel, and decided to do a load of laundry before they left. He was sorting through the contents when Sam came in, and asked to borrow the car.

"Enjoy your last night in a non-hovel for a week, Sam, "Dean suggested, "Whatever you wanna get, we can pick it up tomorrow."

"It's not an errand," Sam explained, "It's, uh, Alison."

Dean's ears pricked up. "Alison? Who's Alison?"

"One of the waitresses at the steakhouse," Sam replied, brandishing another napkin with a number on it. "The brunette."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "The one with the legs that went aaaaaall the way up?"

"Yeah. She, uh, well, I said I'd meet her tonight..."

Dean tossed him the keys. "Call me if she's got a hot sister," he leered.

"Thanks bro," Sam grinned, turning to leave.

"Be a good boy!" trilled Dean. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"That doesn't narrow it down much..."

"At least take some pictures this time!"

"Jerk."

* * *

Spooner swaps, Doc Seuss and rhyming, oh my,  
Spooner swaps, Doc Seuss and rhyming, oh my...

Fuddrucker. Fuddrucker. It's even funnier if you know that we had a Prime Minister named Rudd a few years ago. Yep, that's pretty much what happened to him, along came a Fuddrucker, and poor ol' Kevin was well and truly rucked.

Feed the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews are the Relaxing Beers In The Living Room Of Life!*

*You really don't need A Winchester Of Your Choice wandering around in a state of undress. You really don't. Do you?


	16. Chapter 15

_**GrammarDemon** said: No waffle fries for you, you evil, eeeeeviiiilllllll Dr. Seuss rhyming person, you. No. Not even one._

Noooooooo!

Do not take my waffle fries!  
*Makes the great big puppy eyes*  
Give them back at once, I say -  
Give them back now, right away!

If I do not get them all,  
I will scream and shout and bawl!  
I will eat them all, I swear!  
I will eat them, and not share!

I will eat them, one by one,  
I will eat them, 'til they're done!  
I will lick the crumbs up, too,  
There will be none left for you!

...

Ahem.

Sorry about that. Waffle fries are a subject close to my heart. Like many later life converts of any sort, I'm particularly zealous.

_**Darla** said: Sam is alpha so he can't have assbabies only omegas can have babies in wereverse fanfics_

? ? ?

I had no idea what she was talking about. When talking about an animal at the bottom of the pecking order, an 'omega' individual is usually an artificially produced one, when non-related wolves are kept in captivity. But then I thought, what does pack order have to do with being able to have babies? Animals other than the alpha female can breed. What does this mean in wereverse fanfics?

So, like an idiot, I went and googled it.

And ended up on Tumblr.

o_O

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I also found out what a knotting fic is.

o_O

**AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!**

And after that, it got worse.

I wound up on a website called 'Sinful Desire'.

*faints*

Ignorance was bliss. Denizens; they are depraved, even if they do get shit done.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

Sam returned in the wee small hours and fell into bed, resisting all Dean's efforts at interrogation and insisting that he just wanted to get some sleep.

"He looked exhausted," Dean mused happily over breakfast the next morning, "I'm so proud..."

"I really don't want to know," Ronnie growled.

"Well, we're not in a rush to leave," Dean shrugged, "So I'm happy for him to have some time to recover from whatever it was Alison did to him."

Andrew looked up. "Alison? From the steakhouse?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dean replied.

"Well, there's a turn-up for the books," chortled Ronnie.

"Huh?" went Dean.

"She's got guys sniffin' after her all the time," Andrew explained, "But she's just a, well, she's a nice girl. Not really the serial fling type. Sam must really have made an impression."

"Polar opposite of her sister," remarked Ronnie, flipping a pancake, "Chloe couldn't keep her pants on if you glued the fly shut."

"Sister?" echoed Dean.

"Yeah, they're twins," Andrew told him. "They cover each other's shifts, sometimes, and drive Mal nuts tryin' to keep track of who worked when, and whose paycheck should be how much."

Dean's mouth dropped open. "Twins?"

"They're great, really," Ronnie told him, "They volunteer at the animal shelter. I think Chloe was thinking of throwing in the whole waitressing thing, though, because she's picking up so much work at the yoga studio."

Dean's eyebrows headed for his hairline. "Yoga?"

"She's an instructor," Andrew said.

"Wasn't Alison almost finished her massage diploma?" asked Ronnie. "She was doing some extra study, to qualify to do sports medicine stuff – she doesn't want to be waitressing her whole life, either..."

"Massage?" squeaked Dean.

Ronnie peered at him. "You okay?" she asked, "You look a bit pale, and you've got a long drive ahead of you, let me get you some more pancakes, I think your blood sugar might be low."

"He's just faint from lack of bacon," stated Andrew with authority, and Ronnie scrambled to drop more rashers into the pan.

Sam surfaced later, and went through the now-familiar 'good-morning' nose-sniffing ritual, exchanging whuffs with Ronnie as she busied herself making him breakfast.

"Here," she put a steaming mug in front of him, "You need this."

"Thanks," he yawned, sniffing at it then taking a deep drink. "Ohhhhh, that's better."

Dean made a face. "Are you drinking ass tea again?"

"Yep," Sam beamed, "And if this is what ass tastes like, I'm happy with it."

"Speaking of bein' happy with getting ass," Dean's segue was as subtle as a salivating pervert in a grubby raincoat, "How was your night with... Alison?"

"Fun, if tiring," Sam replied, drinking his tea.

"Tiring?" prompted Dean, "Any reason why it was tiring? Double trouble, perhaps?"

"If there was, I'm not telling you," scowled Sam. "Is there something wrong with your eyebrows?"

"Dean Basil Winchester," Ronnie growled, "I FORBID you to ask your brother prurient questions at the breakfast table. Or anywhere else under this roof. Some things should stay private."

"It will!" Dean insisted, "I won't tell anybody else after he tells me!"

"You want porn, Dean, go start the laptop," humphed Sam. "The other one. The one that runs as slow as a wet week, because you're forever filling it with malware and viruses from sites of questionable taste."

"But this is important!" insisted Dean.

"Breakfast is important," Sam countered, digging into his pancakes.

"Come on, Sam, I need details!" insisted Dean, "I gotta make sure I raised you right – how many rounds? What was her signature move? Were there anyOW!"

The egg cup bounced off his ear. Ronnie gave him the sort of growl usually associated with sudden and bloody death from the darkness.

"Prude," he mumbled, turning back to his coffee.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Later in the morning, The Winchesters loaded up the Impala.

"I'm not completely happy about this," rumbled Ronnie.

"I know," Sam replied, hoisting his duffel into the trunk of the Impala, "But this is something we need to check out. I'll be fine. Dean has my back."

"You better believe it," confirmed Dean, opening the rear door to let Jimi jump into the back seat.

"We know you'll be fine," Andrew said firmly, "Because you're Hunters, and you know what you're doing."

"Just make sure you're back here by the last night of the full moon," Ronnie stipulated, "And if you find you can't fight the shapeshift when the moon is full, stay out of sight."

"Yes, Mom," Sam rolled his eyes and did a marvellous drawling impression of a teenager who believes that he's too old to need babysitting.

"He will," Dean assured her.

"Keep alert for anything silver," she went on, as Dean slid behind the wheel and Sam clambered into shotgun, "You know the smell."

"Yeah, I will," Sam promised.

"Be careful of your teeth if you're eating in public," she finished, "Don't let anybody see!"

"I won't," Sam tried not to roll his eyes, "Really, I'll be fine!"

"So, go save people, Hunt things, and carry on the family business," Andrew said, waving goodbye as Dean gunned the engine.

"Be careful!" Ronnie added, "Look out for your brother, Dean, he's..."

"He's an adult," Andrew cut her off. "Safe trip."

With a honk and a wave, the Winchesters were on the road again.

Ronnie and Andrew stood in the drive, watching the car disappear, then he turned to look at her.

"Chloe?" he said incredulously, "Does Alison even _have_ a sister? A sister who does yoga?"

"She's an only child," Ronnie told him, beaming.

"That was very naughty," Andrew chided his pair-bond.

Well, I didn't hear you rushing to call bullshit," sniffed Ronnie dismissively, "And _you_ turned her into a yoga _instructor._"

"She's not a massage therapist, either," Andrew noted. "She's been doing some work at the shelter, since she got her animal technician qualification."

"Well, maybe she massages the animals," Ronnie suggested. "Maybe she shiatsus Shar-Peis, lomi-lomis Labradors, hot-stones hounds, myotherapises mastiffs, bowens bulldogs, reflexologises Retrievers. swedishes salukis, lymphatically drains Leonbergers..."

Andrew gave her A Look.

"Well, it'll give them something to talk about," she waved a hand airily. "At least, it'll give Dean something to talk about."

"Something to pester his brother about, you mean," Andrew humphed. "Seriously, 'Chloe'? Where the hell did 'Chloe' come from?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Seriously, Dean, knock it off!" snapped Sam, backing it up with a _Bitchface_ #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk).

"Details, Sam, I need details!" Dean insisted, his eyebrows performing lewd feats of occipitofrontal oscillation, "Come on, it's my duty as a big brother to take an interest!"

"It's your choice as a perv to take an interest," Sam huffed, "I don't know why you care – you're always goin' on about how inadequate my sex life is, while yours is non-stop, red-hot, X-rated action – I have no idea why the Living Sex God could possibly want to know about what Mr Vanilla does after dark, seein' as it happens so rarely ..."

"That just makes it more special, Sam," Dean said tenderly. His little brother pulled a face. "But two nights in a row? Way to go little bro! When was the last time that happened? Wait, _has_ it ever happened before?"

"Sex two nights in a row? Yeah," Sam griped, "Hard to believe, I know, but yeah, it has happened before."

"Care to share with the class?" _waggle waggle waggle_

"No."

"So," Dean went on casually, "Did you meet... anyone?"

"What?" yapped Sam. "What the hell?"

"You know, at Alison's place," Dean prompted, "Did you, you know, meetanyone?"

Sam gave his brother a dubious look. "At Alison's place?" he echoed.

"Yeah!" Dean nodded vigorously, "Did you meet anyone?"

"I'm really not going to discuss this with you," Sam scowled.

"Does the name... Chloe mean anything to you?" pressed Dean slyly.

Sam glared at him. "What is this?" he demanded, "Were you pumping Ronnie and Andrew for details?"

"Nope," Dean grinned happily, "They just mentioned her."

Sam rounded on him. "Fine, yeah, I met Chloe there, okay? And before you ask, she had the most beautiful eyes, and amazingly long legs."

"And?..." prompted Dean.

"What do you mean, 'and'?" demanded Sam, as his brother grinned encouragingly. "Oh, for fuck's sake – she was all over me like a rash, and she used plenty of tongue."

Dean's eyes bugged.

"You got your details," Sam grumped, "Now shut the fuck up." He watched a sign flash by. "Let's get some food," he said, "I'm hungry."

"I'm not surprised," murmured Dean, looking at his baby brother with a mix of pride, disbelief and maybe just a little worry.

Sam ignored him. Dean was forever soliciting details of personal encounters that were none of his business.

And why Dean would be interested in hearing about Alison's adorable liittle Whippet was beyond him.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam's snarky mood seemed to dissipate as soon as he had a box of wings in front of him. "Ohhhhhh yeah," he hummed, shoving one into his mouth; Dean thought he heard bones crunch. "That's what I'm talkin' about." He turned around to give one to Jimi, who accepted it happily, then pushed the box across the seat towards his big brother. "Try one, these are real good."

"You know, there are advantages to havin' you like this," Dean ruminated, grabbing a wing out of the box next to him on the seat, "It's been, what, three weeks since you've bitched about my eating habits."

"I'm just hungry," Sam shrugged, picking up another wing.

"Well, you got a lifetime of eatin' rabbit food to make up for," Dean pointed out. "You wanna hit another steakhouse once we get to Portland?"

Sam's eyes lit up. "Awesome!" he beamed.

"It's kinda weird," Dean went on, "You can eat your own bodyweight in meat and trimmings at a sitting, but if we go around doin' steak challenges, you'll actually work out cheaper to feed this way. No wonder I could never get my head around Economics." He took another wing. "So, what's the plan?"

"Well, in order to gather intel on this modelling agency, I think the obvious approach is to present ourselves as possible, uh, you know, clients," Sam suggested. "They advertise themselves as an agency that can provide people of all shapes and sizes, for any job..."

"Well, they'll take one look at me and know that if anybody wants a picture of an awesome guy holding a beer, I'm it," declared Dean. "I suppose you could do shampoo advertising."

"Shut up."

"In fact, if you do, that'd be great, because maybe you could get some free stuff, and that'd save money, what with you having to buy so much shampoo because of your girly hair..."

"Dean..."

"...To the point where it kind of negates your eating-for-free properties – yeah, you'd be enough to keep a whole classful of Economics post-grads goin' for years..."

"Jerk."

"I'm just sayin'," Dean grinned, then reached for another wing, "Or maybe a shaver ad, demonstrating how a particular shaver can power through the most godawful sideburns effortlessly..." his hand found rustling paper. "What the... hey, you've eaten them all, you bitch!"

Sam smiled, and burped. "I had some help," he reminded his big brother, "Jimi ate some too." As if to back him up, Jimi woofed, and belched.

"I oughta just feed you assholes canned food," Dean growled, "You don't seem to care much for quality, provided there's enough quantity."

Sam passed the box over to Jimi to lick out, then Dean slid a cassette into the deck, and cranked up some of his music, singing along and drumming on the wheel, just enjoying the feel of being on the road again.

He was just performing a particularly rousing intro to 'Creeping Death' when his nose twitched...

"What the...? Oh, fuck!" he screwed his face up. "Jesus H. Christ, Jimi, was that you?"

In the back seat, Jimi opened his eyes, let out a long humph, and went back to his snooze.

"No, seriously!" Dean flapped a hand in front of him, "What the hell is that, J-Man? That's bad, even for you! Look for an exit, Sam, I'm gonna find a pet barn, and get some charcoal biscuits..."

Next to him, Sam leaned ever so slightly sideways.

A fresh wave of stench washed over him.

Dean glared at his little brother. "It's you!" he yelped in outrage, "It's the Toxic Taco Boy! Dude, what the fuck?"

Sam just shrugged in an unconcerned fashion as another olfactory assault attacked his nose.

"Hey! Knock it off with the silent-but-deadly thing!" demanded Dean, "Jesus, what the fuck? We haven't eaten Mexican for weeks?"

"I can't help it," Sam answered defensively, "I'm not doing it on purpose!"

"Oh –my – God," moaned Dean, gasping, "Open your damned window!"

"No," Sam replied, "I don't wanna get blown away. It's chilly. You open yours."

"But that'll suck the smell over here, past me!" Dean complained. "Why the hell has this just started?"

"Well, it's the first time we've been in the car for any length of time," Sam pointed out, "So we got an enclosed space here."

"Not how, Sam, why?" Dean almost wailed, winding his own window down. "Why? Why? In the name of all that is holy, _why_?"

Sam considered the question. "Well, maybe it's all the meat I've been eating," he theorised, "And my system isn't used to it, so my flora are adapting."

"Who the fuck is Flora, and why is she adapting you to stinking like something crawled up your ass and died?" Dean wanted to know.

"I mean gut flora, as in, bacteria in your intestines," Sam qualified with a roll of his eyes and a _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "In my case, they're having to adapt to a diet with a lot more animal protein – my intake of methionine and cysteine, sulphur-containing amino acids, has gone up, so they're adapting to utilise those more efficiently, which is resulting in..." he broke wind with sonorously.

"Oh, just great," groaned Dean, "My little brother has bacterial efficiency experts up his ass, and at least one of 'em is learin' the trombone. Fuck my life." He peered at the road ahead. "Look for an exit."

"We've got another couple of hours to go..."

"I know that," Dean cut Sam off, "Which is why we have to find an exit."

"Okay," Sam picked up the well-creased map, "Actually, you know, I wouldn't mind some waffle fries, maybe some onion rings..."

"We're not lookin' for people food," Dean informed him, "I told you, I gotta find a pet barn, and buy some charcoal biscuits."

"I didn't think you minded Jimi, after wings," Sam queried, "Usually, they make him produce cinammon-scented flatus."

"I got no beef with Jimi," growled Dean, "But I am gonna force-feed you the entire packet!"

* * *

Could somebody bring me some waffle fries and some mind bleach? Ta. And if anybody sees my ignorance lying broken and bleeding on the ground somewhere, please pick it up and give it back, I'm prepared to take desperate measures to restore it...


	17. Chapter 16

Oh, Real Life are a pain. This whole thing with having to turn up to work, and actually do a job, to earn money, well, if I'm frank, it's starting to pall. I should've gone into Economics, so I could major in embezzlement. As it is, the only embezzling I'm in a position to do would be to embezzle the money for the milk club - the kitty is usually around $50, and might get me a bus ticket to Narbethong (a small timber mill place a couple of hours north of Melbourne that's straight out of 'Deliverance'.) And here's me, literate, not in-bred, and unable to play the banjo.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

They hit the outskirts of Portland late afternoon, while Sam was making his way through some waffle fries.

"Find us a place to stay, Balto," ordered Dean. "Then I wanna find a-aAAAAAAARGH DUDE WHAT THE HELL!" He started to slap at his brother's hand, which had crept into his lap. "Bad touch, bro!"

"Don't flatter yourself," sniffed Sam, grabbing a handful of fries from the box in Dean's lap.

"Hey!" Dean yipped in outrage, "Leave my fries alone!"

"But I've finished mine!" Sam whined, giving Dean the exact expression Jimi used whilst watching his Alpha eat bacon.

"Well, maybe if you bother to chew before swallowing next time, yours will last longer," griped Dean. "And don't do the eyes thing."

"I'm hungry," said Sam in a sad whisper, dialling the Puppy Dog Eyes up another notch. "I can't help it, I'm always hungry, Dean..."

"What's left in the snack box?" Dean prompted, waving a hand at the package that Ronnie had prepared to sustain them on the road.

"Crumbs," noted Sam, looking in the box, then back to his brother. "Dean," he begged, "I really am hungry..." the Puppy Dog Eyes went all the way up to eleven.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," muttered Dean, pushing the box towards Sam, "Here, you starving-warving maltweated wittle werewolf..."

"Thanks, bro!" Sam chirped happily, grabbing up the box.

"Bitch," Dean growled. "Now, can you find us somewhere to stay while you're stuffing your face?"

Sam wiped his hands on his jeans and reached for his laptop, locating a motel of their usual suitably cruddy standard. "And there's bars, a couple of blocks away," he added.

"Cool," Dean noted, checking his watch. "It's too late to head to the agency today, and we're runnin' low on funds, so tonight, we play pool." He glanced at Sam. "Is there a place to eat that does any sort of stuff-your-face-fast-enough-and-it's-free deal?"

"Yep," Sam confirmed, beaming, "There's a steak place, and a seafood place that does steak too, and an Italian place that specialises in traditional Chianina steak..." Sam looked up. "I, uh, did some research before we left Chez Jaeger."

"I'm picking up on a theme, here," Dean observed with a grin, "But I guess can't object."

They checked in, then Dean found a 'Dr Sexy' re-run on the TV, so Sam called Bobby to let him know what they were up to.

"I'm kinda with Ronnie on this one, boy," growled the old Hunter, "I'd rather you'd stayed put until we could debark you, and make sure it worked."

"It won't be a problem," Sam assured him, "I can flip the shapeshift switch, so I can probably avoid shifting at the full moon if I want to. It must be because I was turned by a self-aware wolf with control, not a feral one who was out lookin' for a heart to rip out."

"Why is it that that don't reassure me none," griped Bobby. "So, how are you doin', son? Not the injuries, I mean on the inside. The whole wolf thing."

"It's..." Sam found himself lost for words. "It's not so bad," he said eventually. "In fact, it's kinda..." he looked back to where his brother was hurling imprecations at a character who'd had the temerity to question Dr Sexy's diagnosis, relationship status and capacity between the sheets. "I don't really mind," he went on, "I know I'm supposed to be some sort of monster, a fugly, and if I wasn't me, I'd be Hunting me down, but I don't _feel_ like a monster – and I know what feeling like a monster feels like. This is totally different. I don't have any urges to act like a monster. Well, if you asked Ronnie about my table manners, she might disagree, but... it's hard to explain." He recalled the wordless 'conversations' he'd found himself understanding, then having, with the Jaegers, with... his pack, and the feeling of belonging. "It's like, I've been adopted, and, and, I've got these two people, I know they're not my parents, and I know that Dean's my family, and always will be, he's the one who raised me, when you weren't doin' it, but..." he sighed and gave up. "It's just been kinda... nice, actually."

"And how's your brother?" asked Bobby.

"He's... puttin' up with it," Sam replied. "He's totally on board with the idea that his little brother wants to eat at places that dish up lots of red meat, and if we get stuck with a flat and the jack isn't working, I could probably just go four-legged and hold the car up while he changed it, but for some reason, it's turned him into, well, he's turned into something of a prude, which is just weird. And he doesn't like me drinkin' houndswort, which he calls ass tea."

"Uh-huh," noted Bobby, keeping quiet about his own suspicions about what the elder Winchester's newfound status as 'prude' might stem from. "Well, it's all a bit confrontin' for him – you know what he's like, he'll still be beatin' himself up over getting you bitten and turned."

"What? But... that's nuts!" Sam burst out. "He did it to keep me alive! And it worked! And it's turned out all right, and it's reversible if necessary, and I've got control, well, except for the beer thing, it's not a problem..."

"Well, see that you make sure he knows it," instructed Bobby, letting the 'if necessary' qualifier slide by unremarked, "He's enough of a mother hen when you Hunt as it is."

"Tell me about it," sighed Sam. "But we really do have to deal with this job now - we might not have much time to figure out what it is." He went on to describe the mystery of the disappearances and the serial modelling agencies. "The pattern suggests it's about time for it to happen again."

"Just be careful, ya idjits," Bobby insisted. "And if you do shapeshift, stay outta sight."

"If worst comes to worst, we always got the South African Hippohound story," Sam said.

"Which will hold for approximately zero seconds if you end up talkin' to anybody who actually knows about dogs, and knows that there aint no such breed," snapped Bobby.

"We'll be careful," Sam promised, "We'll finish this job, and go straight back to Casa Jaeger."

Bobby mumbled a few more veiled threats about what he would do to them if they exceeded usual background levels of idjitry, then rang off.

"Ha!" Dean barked at the TV in triumph, "And_ that _is what happens to anybody who crosses Dr Sexy!"

"Do I even want to know?" asked Sam.

"It's a modern morality tale, Sammy," Dean sighed happily. "Good defeats evil, the bad guy is beaten, happy ending, and Dr Sexy get's the girl. Then another happy ending. That was tense for a moment, though, I thought the boots really were gonna get shoved in the autoclave..."

"Sounds like a real nail-biter," muttered Sam. "Come on, let's go eat."

"Isn't that my line?" protested Dean, grabbing his jacket and keys as Jimi jumped to his feet and followed eagerly to the door.

"Well, you were busy," Sam jerked a thumb at the TV. "So I said it for you. I wouldn't ever want to put you in the situation of having to decide between steak, and Dr Sexy."

Dean shuddered at the very thought of such a dilemma. "Crap," he muttered, "That would be harsh. Like when I was eighteen, we were at that school in Topeka, and there were the Lewis twins, Brandi and Shandi, and I had to decide which one first, and..."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They decided to try the steak place first. Sam first set a new record for eating a 72 oz. piece of meat - under three minutes - then got his meal for free by eating a steak dinner with trimmings in a more leisurely fashion, but still well under an hour, while the proprietor made jokes about starting a handicapping system for carnivorous giants.

"I should probably be worried about the fact that you weren't that far behind me," he said to Dean, who also ate a steak dinner for free that night, "At least I got the reason of bein' a werewolf."

"And I," Dean grinned, "Got the reason of bein' a real man. Not like you. You're some chlorophyll-powered freak. Heliotropic. Put you in the sun, you'd probably photosynthesize."

"What... Dean, did you just say 'heliotropic'?" marvelled Sam, stunned. "Five syllables, bro? 'Heliotropic'? Since when do you know words like 'heliotropic', let alone 'chlorophyll' and 'photosynthesize'?" demanded Sam.

"Since I can use 'em to point out what a weirdo you are," Dean smirked annoyingly, then burped heartily. "Or were. Seriously, pre-wolf thing, if I stood you in a pot of damp soil, you'd probably put down roots."

"If I did, I'd make sure I was a triffid, and you'd be the first person I'd sting," grumped Sam, opening the rear door of the car where Jimi Junior was waiting patiently. He stood to greet them, and his tail wagged even harder when he caught the scent of the little bag of leftovers Sam had begged from the kitchen for him. _Alpha! Second! Affection! I greet you!_

_I greet you,_ Sam whuffed back, _Affection. _ _We have eaten._ He turned the bag inside out so Jimi could snuffle up the goodies.

_Jimi eats! _ The dog happily scarfed down the treats.

"What was that about?" asked Dean, as his dog and his brother whuffed at each other.

"Hmmm?" Sam started, as if he hadn't even realised what he was doing. "Oh, it's kind of to do with pack ranking," he explained a bit sheepishly, "To him, we're the dominant animals of his pack, so once we've finished eating, it's okay for him to have whatever's left over."

"Like Andrew and his potato pancakes," nodded Dean in understanding.

"Or the last piece of chicken," added Sam, with just a touch of resentment.

"So, having been adequately sated with delicious chunks of charred mammal flesh," enthused Dean with another burp, which was echoed by Jimi, "I think it's time to find a bar to drink some beer, play some pool to make some cash, and, of course..."

"Meet some frisky women to worship at the altar of the Living Sex God," finished Sam in a resigned tone. "You really are a simple creature."

"I like to think of myself as 'uncomplicated'," agreed Dean happily. "The great thing about simplicity is that there's fewer things that can go wrong."

"Could explain why, after you've had so many head injuries in your life, you're still more or less _compos mentis_," observed Sam. "Inasmuch as you have any _mentis _left to _compos_."

"Bitch."

They found a suitable venue, and left Baby in the lot secure in the knowledge that she was perfectly safe with the JimiAlarm MkII on board.

"I never get tired of that," smiled Dean, as a casual figure got too close to the car for the dog's liking and jumped backwards as a half-Hellhound shaped like a Rottweiler went ballistic defending his 'territory'. "He's better than a MagnaVolt. Just like his old man."

"Plus, that steak will be workin' its way through as we speak," Sam reminded him, "And no self-respecting car thief wants to boost a ride that's been infused with the smell of lavender."

"Don't remind me. Come on."

Dean was in his element in bars, and they quickly fell into the hustling routine they'd used so many times.

Of course, it wasn't always successful; neither of them was infallible, and they'd been hustled themselves. When that happened, all you could do was salute a fellow hustler, and gracefully acknowledge that you'd been had, because playing against somebody better was the only way to improve your game, and nobody wanted a fight to break out when that could lead to police being called and asking all sorts of awkward questions about fake IDs.

(The only exception to this was when Dean had his fluffy butt whupped by Ronnie the first time they played. He was so incensed that he refused to pay up – the stake had been a packet of bacon-flavoured corn chips – and it was only the timely intervention of Sam and Bobby that prevented a punch-up. After that, the gloves were off, and on every occasion they played at the top of their games, the tally usually about 50:50 in an ongoing grudge that made the little spat between the Hatfields and McCoys seem like a bit of a tiff over What Sharon Said About Our Rose's Lemon Sponge At The Church Bake Sale.)

Dean always thought it was a bit more interesting when an opponent actually had a bit of skill, and it was extra amusing when the one who was on the losing end was his brother. He finished his own game, shook hands and collected his winnings, then sauntered over to watch the guy Sam was playing line up yet another shot.

"Never mind, Sammy," he grinned, "I'll buy you beer. Or maybe one of those weird cocktails that girls like, since you're clearly playin' like one."

"Shut up," muttered Sam, as his opponent grinned at the teasing too. He considered the table, moved around to the cue ball, lined up his next shot...

_Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_

The sound travelled to him through the floor rather than the air, and it went straight to his hindbrain; he jumped as if he'd been bitten, and spun around.

Sam was examining his fingernails.

Thinking he must be imagining things, the guy turned back to the table, and lined up his shot...

_Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_

He bolted upright as, in deference to millions of years of evolution, his heart pounded and his mouth went dry.

"Did... did you guys hear something?" he asked, his voice coming out pitched higher than he'd intended. The Winchesters and a couple of kibitzers looked bemused, and shook their heads. So he told himself to stop being such an idiot, turned back to the table, and lined up his next shot...

_Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_

He missed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You know, that probably counts as cheatin'," Dean told his little brother as they celebrated being much richer than they'd started.

"I like to think that I just used all the weapons to hand to turn the situation around," shrugged Sam, "You know, improvise, adapt, overcome. Anyway, he was trying to hustle me, so it serves him right."

"He wasn't tryin', he was hustling you," Dean pointed out with a smirk.

"Yeah, well, psyching out the opposition isn't cheating if your opponent is hustling," stated Sam in a virtuous tone. "And we got cash, that's what's important."

"Can't argue with that," agreed Dean, letting the Killer Smile slide casually into place as he noticed a buxom blonde watching him from the other end of the bar. He quirked a come-hither eyebrow at her, and she turned to giggle with her equally well-endowed friend. "So, what's our plan for scoping out this agency?"

"We present ourselves as earnest types looking to maybe earn a little bit of extra money by getting our names on their books," Sam suggested. "Then ask casual but pertinent questions, then we pool our intel – we really gotta work out what we're dealing with." He got up from his stool. "I gotta hit the head," he went on, "Don't touch my beer."

"What? And catch girl germs?" scoffed Dean. Sam gave him a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), and headed for the men's room.

Dean chuckled to himself, then turned and slouched casually as the blonde and her friend, giggling and elbowing each other, approached him. He wound the Killer Smile up a notch.

"Hi," the blonde trilled, "We, uh, we saw you playing pool earlier, and thought we'd come over to say hello."

"Well, then, hello, ladies," purred the Living Sex God, cranking up the juice on the Come Hither ambiance.

They giggled again. "I'm Stacey," the blonde continued, "And this is Rebecca."

"Hi!" chirped Rebecca.

"Dean," he replied, the Killer Smile stropping its claws in anticipation. "So, if you saw me playing pool earlier, you'll know that I can definitely offer to buy you a drink." He cocked an eyebrow in query, with a good dose of insinuation behind it.

"Oh, that'd be great!" trilled Rebecca, as he nodded to the bartender, "But, well, we saw you sitting here, and wondered..." she trailed into silence, and they giggled again.

"Uh-huh?" he prompted, loading the two syllables with more invitation than an air-headed party girl's Facebook page.

"Well," Stacey took up the conversation, "We were wondering... could you introduce us to your friend?"

* * *

Reviews are the Introduction To The Winchester Of Your Choice By The Other Winchester In The Bar Of Life!


	18. Chapter 17

***For this chapter, an _***__**AUTHOR CREDIT*** **_goes to **The Blue Orleans** (aka The Driver), for his suggestion for a title for Sam that makes him sound like a monster who should go head to head with Godzilla over Tokyo sometime.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

Dean scowled as he heard Sam's key in the door of their room early next morning. His brother entered quietly, making no noise at all.

"I'm awake," Dean griped, sitting up, "No need to tiptoe through the tulips, Beethoven."

"I'm surprised you're even here," noted Sam, sitting down to take his shoes off, "The way that Rebecca was looking at you, I thought you'd go home with her for sure."

"Yeah, well, the Living Sex God has high standards," sniffed Dean disdainfully.

Sam paused and looked at him. "I always thought 'has a pulse' was adequate qualification," he said, confused.

"Look, just because she didn't do it for me, it's no big deal," shrugged Dean.

Sam stared at his brother. "With a rack like that?" he noted, incredulously. "She had a rack like that, and she didn't 'do it for you'? Dean, are you feeling all right!"

"Of course I'm feeling all right!" snapped Dean, "Just because I didn't want to jump in the sack with some random woman doesn't mean there's something wrong with me."

"Uh, actually," Sam pointed out, "In your case, it might."

"Well, it doesn't," Dean grumped, "Me and Jimi had an awesome boys' night in, didn't we, J-Man?" Jimi wagged his tail, jumped back onto his Alpha's bed, and began to kiss Dean enthusiastically.

"Christo," said Sam in a flat voice.

"Bless you," Dean smiled viciously, thinking wistfully of the greatness of Rebecca's rack, then remembering his determination not to take his little brother's reject after he'd left with her friend Stacey. "Anyway, Rebecca, Rebecca, it's too close to Becky, who is technically a Rebecca. We might've got to her place, and she'd have asked me to call her Becky, and then I'd have been traumatised for good."

"Hmmmm, fair point," conceded Sam. "So, we goin' for breakfast?"

"What, you didn't perform adequately for her to feed you?" scoffed Dean, some of the cockiness returning. "Dude, I'm disappointed, if you don't make her squeal at least twice, you aint tryin' hard enough..."

"We had breakfast," Sam told him nonchalantly, taking off his socks, "Between Round Two and Round Three, as it happens, but I'm still hungry. And she wasn't a squealer, she kind of made this yipping noise, do you remember the Yip-Yips, the aliens, from Sesame Street, well, she...

Dean stared at his brother. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" he demanded.

"What? Dean it's me!" protested Sam. "Ask Jimi!" He gruffed to the dog, who immediately jumped off Dean's bed and onto Sam's, and began to nuzzle at his Second. "See? He recognises me."

"Do you think I wanna hear the details about the chick you banged and the noises she made?" Dean queried querulously.

"Well, uh, yeah," Sam shrugged, "You're always telling me I need to get laid, and if I do, you're always demanding details, and preferably pictures too..."

"Yeah, but..." Dean paused, and settled for pulling an expression of extreme disapproval at his baby brother. "Go shower," he ordered, "You stink of sex. I'm not goin' out in public with a guy who stinks of sex."

Sam looked nonplussed. "I don't see how I could," he protested, "Round Three was in the shower..."

"Bathe," commanded Dean with his most authoritative I Am Your Big Brother So Do What I Say glare.

Sam cocked his head. "You know, when you do that, you don't look like Andrew, you look constipated – maybe you're the one who needs to get some fibre into his diet..."

_Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_

Sam stopped dead. "Actually, that's pretty good," he conceded, heading for the bathroom, "Did you and Jimi practise that last night?"

"Shut up and wash," Dean growled, as Sam complied. "Smartass," he muttered, patting Jimi's ears, "Maybe I should push him over and put my teeth on his neck... huh?" His face screwed up into a picture of disgust. "You bitch!" he shouted at his brother, "You filthy little bitch! Don't talk to me about dietary fibre! You cropdusted me!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

While Sam was in the shower, Dean dressed, then grabbed his cell and called Ronnie.

"There's something wrong with Sam," he began without preamble.

"What?" he heard the worry in her voice immediately. "Dean, what is it?"

"He went home with a girl last night!" he hissed into the phone, "He went to her place, and they had sex!"

There was a pause. "They... had sex?" Ronnie echoed uncertainly.

"Yes!" Dean answered. "Three rounds!"

"Okaaaaay," she went on, "And now what's wrong?"

Dean blinked. "What's wrong? What's wrong? It's not normal!" he protested. "My little brother does not go out, and get laid, and then come home and tell me about it!"

"But you're always pestering him," she pointed out reasonably, "You're always telling him he needs to get laid, and then you're always pestering him to give you prurient details..."

"And this morning, he did!" Dean agreed.

"So," Ronnie continued uncertainly, "Sam went home with a girl, like you're always telling him he should do, then he came home, and told you about it, like you're always badgering him to do, and the problem is...?"

"It's not normal!" Dean barked into the phone. "He's got laid three times in a week! By three different women! No, four, if you count Chloe, Alison the waitress's sister..."

Ronnie laughed. "Dean, Chloe isn't Alison's sister; Chloe is her dog. Chloe is a Whippet. She's an enthusiastic kisser, I can attest to that, but that's as far as it goes."

Realisation dawned in Dean. "For that, I will end you," he growled. "But seriously, it's like he's attracting them! There were two of them last night, swarmin' around him like sharks around blood in the water..."

"Can you have a swarm of anything if there's just two?" she interrupted.

"In this case, yes," he snapped. "Somethin' weird is goin' on."

He heard her chuckle on the other end of the line. "I think you'll find that it's not at all weird," she suggested, "It's just biology."

"Yeah, well, I knew all about that before I sat through what was laughably referred to as Sex Ed at school," observed Dean sourly.

"No, no, no," she cut him off. "I mean, it's biology. How do I put this? Your brother... he's alpha material. Not all males are, but he is."

"What does that even mean?" Dean asked.

"It's hard to explain," she said sheepishly, "It's a combination of physiology, psychology and personality. His mojo, if you like. It means, if he wanted to, he could carry off establishing a pack of his own, with himself as the Alpha Male, the leader of the pack. Like Andrew. And that kind of, well, comes across on lots of levels. It's the way he carries himself, the way he talks, and, uh, well, there's pheromones."

"Pheromones," repeated Dean. "I thought pheromones was that fake stuff that scam websites offer for ridiculous amounts of money for ugly guys to dab behind their ears to attract women."

Ronnie laughed out loud. "Well, the principle is sound, even if the product is a fraud," she replied. "For humans, it's not consciously noticeable. For wolves, smell is a much more developed sense, and conveys a lot of information. The concept of an alpha doesn't just mean he's purely a dominant character; it means he's got the sort of qualities that mean he could lead a pack, and provide for and protect a mate and... and pups. And to females, at a very fundamental level, that's incredibly attractive. He doesn't even know it, but I'm afraid your baby brother is walking around exuding the olfactory equivalent of a neon sight reading COME AND GET IT LADIES. I'm not surprised if it's even extending to human females; his 'neon letters' are ten feet high, and very bright. And let's be honest, it doesn't hurt that he's a nice guy – you can smell that on him, too – and his human self pretty easy on the eyes."

"Great," humphed Dean sourly, "And what about his wolf self, huh?"

"Well, for a start, he's too young for an old bitch like me," she scoffed in amusement, "And because I'm pair-bonded I'm not affected anyway, but besides that, he's... " he heard a note in her voice he hadn't ever heard before. "Sam's been brought into our pack by my mate, and he's like... like an adopted pup. Of course, I'm not his mother, but..."

He heard the unspoken sentiment. _He's part of our pack. He's like family._

"But if you really want to know," she went on, and he could hear her grinning, "In his wolf form, your brother is sex on four paws."

"Crap," sighed Dean, "Tell me, what's likely to happen if we encounter another werewolf while we're on this job?"

"Depends," she told him cheerfully, "A male will probably turn and run, unless you run into another alpha, in which case testosterone will take over and they'll fight. Don't worry, Sam will probably tear him to pieces."

"And if it's a female?" pressed Dean.

"Oh, she'll probably get one whiff, and run at him backwards," she added with apparent relish at his discomfort. "You're probably safe shooting her while they're at it, though – Old North werewolves don't have a bulbus glandis, so they don't 'tie' when they mate, so they won't get stuck..."

"Gaaaaah!" yelped Dean. "What is it with werewolves? If you're not paradin' around naked, you're dishing out way too much information..."

"Werewolves are never naked," she reminded him loftily. "Sometimes, we just don't have clothes on."

"The next walking rug that says that to me is gonna get their snout slapped," he growled.

"Just get your job done, and get back here," she instructed. "Look after your brother, smartarse."

"Yes, Mom," he drawled as annoyingly as possible, then rang off.

"Who was that?" asked Sam, emerging from the bathroom drying his hair.

"Ronnie, checkin' up on us," Dean lied smoothly, "And she said you have to... ah, shit, Sam!"

"What?" Sam's head popped out from under the towel.

"Could you at least DON'T TURN AROUND OH GOD! Jesus, could you at least use a towel?"

"I am using a towel!" Sam held out said item for inspection. "See?"

"No, I mean on the rest of yourself!" specified Dean.

"I did already," Sam replied, "I'm dry. Except for my hair."

"For fuck's sake, put some pants on!" snapped Dean.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sam shot back, exasperated, as he ratted through his duffle.

"No, I mean,_ before_ you come out of the bathroom!" Dean qualified. "Before, Sam! Put clothes on _before_ you come out of the bathroom!"

"The fan's not working in there," Sam told him equably, "My stuff would get all damp from the steam anyway."

"I don't care if there's a fucking localised monsoon happening in there, because I think I've made it clear, I aint interested in lookin' at my baby broth- ISAIDDON'TTURNAROUND!"

"So don't look," shrugged Sam, pulling on some shorts.

"No, don't you stroll around bareass naked," Dean ordered.

Sam pulled a shirt over his head, then pulled on his jeans. "Dean, look, I don't get why it's a big deal; we've lived in each other's pockets since I was six months old, and suddenly you're shy? And anyway, I'm not really naked, I just don't have any-OW! What was that for, jerk?"

"For bein' a bitch," griped Dean, "Come on, let's go eat."

"You wanna sniff me before we go to see if I'm adequately decontaminated?"

"Shut up." Dean sighed heavily. "It's just my luck," he complained, "My baby brother has a secret identity. Mostly he goes under the guise of a mild-mannered nudist, but by the full moon, he becomes Follicula, The Great Beast – and I'm not sure which is worse. He could rampage across Tokyo in either form, and it would take Godzilla to stop him..."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

After breakfast at a busy diner (at which Dean was peeved to see their waitress slip Sam a napkin with a phone number on it), they headed for the address of Real People. They parked where they could watch the door: as they watched, a number of people, of all ages, shapes and sizes, went in and out of the premises.

"So, you can stick with Sam Kilmister," Dean instructed, "I'll be Dean Page, extraordinarily handsome mechanic who's lookin' to see if I might pick up some extra cash., and possibly also extraordinarily abductable."

"You wanna trawl yourself as bait?" sighed Sam. "Again? Dean, do you have to..."

"Good way to find out what's goin' on," Dean grinned winningly. "And there could be hot women needing rescuing."

"I really hate it when you do this," muttered Sam.

"I'll be fine," Dean said dismissively, "The Living Sex God can take care of himself. Besides which, I'll have men on the outside. Well, when I say 'men', I mean you and the dog. Jimi, and Follicula, The Great Beast..."

"Of course," Sam rolled his eyes. "And what if it turns out to be me that gets abducted?"

Dean fixed Sam with a Big Brother gaze. "That won't happen," he said quietly. "I won't let it."

Sam gave his brother the puppy dog eyes. "You are impossible sometimes, you know that? Can I at least register an official protest?"

"Huh, this from the guy who parades around buck naked..."

"I don't parade around! I just walked from the bathroom to my bed, that's not 'parading'!"

"So, you stay here, and rampage across the internet," instructed Dean, "See if you can link any more of the disappeared people to this place's last incarnation. I'll go first, scope the place out," Dean stated firmly, "Then you can go later."

"But..."

"Sit. Stay," growled Dean, getting out of the car, "You aint alpha of this pack yet, bitch."

Sam shot his big brother a Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child), but pulled out his laptop. He watched his big brother head for the Real People office. He knew it was just Dean's pathological case of Big Brother, but it worried him the way it always did when Dean seemed determined to behave as if his own safety was worthless.

"He's never gonna change, is he?" sighed Sam, as Jimi hung his head over the front seat and nuzzled at him companionably.

_Alpha is casting for the Hunt,_ the dog gruffed with a calm confidence that Sam wished he could share.

_He is casting,_ Sam agreed. _And I worry about his safety. He's my brother._

_He is Alpha, _Jimi rumbled reassuringly, _Our pack is strong and happy. We will Hunt!_

Sam scratched Jimi's ears. "There are times when I envy you," he murmured, as the dog grinned happily at the scritching. "Life is all a lot simpler for a canine."

_We will Hunt with our pack_, Jimi reiterated,_ It is the way of things._

He'd been working on his laptop for a while when his stomach rumbled.

Dean would later accuse him of taking a terribly fragrant revenge for being told to stay put, but Sam protested that the Mexican place just across from the lot was the closest to the car, and that the beef and bean burritos he shared with Jimi just happened to be on special.

* * *

Feed the plot bunny reviews, because they repel Real Life! (The reviews. Not the plot bunnies. Although they sometimes make it difficult to concentrate on RL.)


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

The office of the Real People agency looked like the inside of what a modelling agency might be expected to look like: the walls were lined with photos of all sorts of people. Dean had the impression that their teeth were following him around the room.

He was examining a picture of a child with jug ears and buck teeth that suggested he was somehow descended from both elephants and chipmunks when he heard a voice behind him say cheerfully, "Hello!"

He spun around, and let a slightly shy smile spread across his face. "Uh, hi," he replied, "I, uh, saw your ad in the paper and…"

"Hold it right there." Dean found himself being stared at intently by a middle-aged, slightly balding, slightly paunchy man whose appearance suggested that he had somehow stepped out of the pages of a book called 'Gay Stereotyping: If You're Going To Dress Like That You Might As Well Be Fa-LAMING!'. There were lilac pants. There was an orange shirt with wide lapels and ruffles. There was a pair of platform sneakers that had been left too close to an explosion in a sequin factory. He had a sudden mental picture of Crowley raiding Liberace's wardrobe.

"Uh, is everything okay?" he asked, as the man continued his scrutiny.

"Dear boy, everything is better than okay," breathed his examiner, "Oh my God, will you look at that bone structure, those cheekbones, those lips… " he moved closer, and let out a little gasp. "Are you wearing contacts?" he asked.

"Uh, no," Dean replied, and the man let out a little squeak of happiness.

"Oh my, all this, and green eyes too!" he bubbled happily, then suddenly let out a little gasp. "Oh, I am SO sorry!" he chirped. "I'm Butch Schwartz, owner, manager, and chief stage mom of Real People."

"Dean, Dean Page," Dean replied, holding out his hand.

Butch recoiled theatrically. "Oh, I don't shake hands, sweetie," he trilled, "And let's face it, you don't know where I've been!"

"Um, well, it's good to meat you, Butch. Really?" The last word popped out before Dean could stop it.

Butch rolled his eyes dramatically. "Blame my parents," he sighed, "They didn't have a lot of imagination. Wishful thinking on my father's part, maybe. It could've been worse. My brother was named Hercules. Hercules! Who does that to a child?"

"Yeah?" Dean couldn't help but smile. "So, did he go into the circus as a strong man?"

"He's as skinny as a rake," confided Butch, "And he works as an interior decorator in Cali these days. But anyway, what can I do for you, Dean? No, scratch that, a better question is, where have you been wasting your life up until today?"

"Well," Dean ran a hand through his hair uncertainly, "I'm a mechanic, but it don't pay real well these days, and, uh, your ad said you take all sorts of people, and the guys at work are always teasin' me about how I look…"

"Oh, I get where you're coming from," Butch said sympathetically.

"And I thought, well, maybe I could make a bit of extra money," Dean went on. "I figured it couldn't hurt to come in and ask, right?"

"Absolutely!" Butch beamed, "And I am so glad you did! When I look at you, I see all-American man, I see toothpaste, I see barbeque sauce…"

"Have I got some on my face?" Dean wiped anxiously at his chin, and Butch laughed.

"No, no, sorry," he apologised, "What I mean is, frankly, I think you have a look that could pick up commercial work. Have you ever done any sort of modelling work before?"

"No," Dean said, letting worry leak into his voice. "Is that gonna be a problem?"

"With your face, not for long," Butch smiled broadly. "I have a couple of very good photographers, we can get one of them to put together a few shots for you – look, why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?"

Butch fetched them coffee from a pod machine that made Dean think of spaceships, and they chatted for a while. Dean spun a story about being newly arrived in town, with no family left to speak of, no real connections, nobody who'd notice if he suddenly dropped out of sight – in other words, he was eminently abductable.

"If you'd like to drop by tomorrow, I can get Lois to take some shots of you," Butch suggested, "You won't need many just to get a starting folio together."

"Yeah, sure, that'd be great," smiled Dean. "Well, thanks for your help, Butch."

"Oh, I think we'll be able to help each other!" enthused Butch, waving him out of the shop front.

Dean made his way back to the car where Sam and Jimi were finishing off their snacks.

"So, are you the Next Big Thing?" asked Sam.

"Funny you should ask that," Dean smirked, "Butch says that when he looks at me, he sees all-American guy, and he thinks I can pick up some work pretty quickly."

"Butch?" Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah," Dean grinned, "Butch Schwartz. He runs Real People. He's actually about as butch as Julian Clary. Actually, I think if he shook hands with Julian Clary, he'd probably get his wrist broken. He dresses like an explosion in RuPaul's wardrobe rejects. I think the expression we're lookin' for here is 'Larger Than Life'. Or possibly 'Screaming Queen'." His face became serious. "He comes across as nice enough – harmless, even – but if you asked me, I'd say he was kind of creepy."

"Is that 'kind of creepy because he's setting off my Hunter's spidey senses' or 'kind of creepy because I'm an unreformed homophobe'?" asked Sam solicitously.

"Bitch," scowled Dean, "Well, 'Schwartz' is another word meaning black, right?"

"German," Sam nodded. "So, I think I should go, to get a second opinion."

"Yeah," Dean agreed reluctantly as he sifted through the wrappings on the front seat, "What were you eating? Did you leave any for me? You didn't!" Jimi looked at him from the back seat and licked his chops. "You pair of little bitches!"

"I was hungry," Sam complained, "We both were, so I just got us some burritos, and…"

"What?" the horrified gasp burst from Dean. "Have you and Jimi been eating burritos in my car?"

"Well, yeah," replied Sam, "Like I said, we were both hungry, and…"

He paused, looked thoughtful, then passed gas musically.

"Gaaah!" gasped Dean, "Get the fuck out of my car, Toxic Taco Boy!"

"That won't be the burritos," Sam pointed out, "We've only just eaten them. That'll be last night's steak."

"I don't care if it's a skunk with the plague that crawled up your ass and died!" yapped Dean, flapping a hand in front of his face as he started the engine, "If you do that again, you can walk!"

"Screw you," said Sam serenely. "Like you've never let fly loud enough to wake up people on the other side of a brick wall."

"I hate you," Dean muttered, "I can't win. You live on vegetables, you're toxic. You live on meat, you're toxic. You could be one of those freaks who claims to be able to live on sunlight, and you'd still be capable of breaking a dozen international laws about the use of chemical munitions."

As the car pulled away from the kerb, Jimi woofed happily and wagged his tail in the back seat. A wave of lavender scent washed over Dean."

"Et tu, Jimi," he sighed in resignation.

An afternoon spent at the local library going through back issues of newspapers didn't turn up any more solid connections between disappeared girls and the modelling agency. Dean called a halt, claiming that his eyeballs were going to claw themselves out of his head, so they called it a day, and went for dinner.

"Maybe we should try to find out more about this Butch guy," Sam suggested, making his way through the massive Reef & Beef platter that made Dean's steak dinner look positively modest, "Where he's from, how long he's been here, how long he's been in this line of work…"

"Well, I'll leave any fashionista-ing to you," decided Dean, "Seein' as you're probably closer to Butch in taste in clothes than I am."

"I don't wear lilac pants! Or ruffles!" protested Sam, biting into a large shrimp.

"You got that thing that looks like a maternity shirt," sniffed Dean in distaste.

"It's not a maternity shirt!" protested Sam, crunching away on the shrimp.

"Close enough," shrugged Dean, "Uh, Sam, did you peel that thing properly?"

Sam crunched a few more times, swallowed, then picked up another shrimp and bit into it with another crunch. "Peel?"

"Never mind," sighed Dean, "Just enjoy your dinner. And don't solicit kitchen scraps for Jimi; I'm gonna get him wings. After what you bitches did to my car, it needs some cinnamon scent."

Sam finished his dinner with obvious relish just before Dean.

"That was great," he hummed happily, picking at his teeth.

Dean eyed his brother. "You might get disqualified if they decide that you're wearing too much of it to qualify as having 'eaten' it inside the time limit."

Sam looked down at himself, and brushed at the evidence of a meal enjoyed at least partly without cutlery. "I'm good," he said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, then going back to picking his teeth. "It needed a wash anyway…"

"Dude!" hissed Dean, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I think I got something stuck," Sam replied, frowning, "Feels like a piece of shrimp shell, maybe…"

"Your hand, Sam!" Dean yelped under his breath. "Your damned hand!"

"Huh?" Sam took his hand away from his mouth; from his index finger there extended a length of sharp claw. "Oh." He concentrated, and the claw retracted then disappeared. "Uh, sorry," she said sheepishly. "But it's really annoying."

"You eat like a starving dog, then you pick your teeth at the table. With your claws," griped Dean. "What do you think your Den Mother would have to say about that, huh?"

"I think she'd be pleased with me for reeling my claw back in so easily," Sam replied brightly.

Dean paused to consider what he knew of Ronnie's own table manners. "You're probably right," he sighed in a resigned tone. "I'm warnin' you, though, you scoot your ass across the carpet here, and I'll rub your nose in it."

"Jerk," Sam huffed, sounding remarkably like Jimi being told to get off the sofa. He wiped at his hands again. "Uh, maybe I should go clean up."

"Unless you wanna ride in the trunk," snarked Dean. Sam flipped him off, then headed for the men's room.

While he was gone, a waitress came to clear the table. She gave Dean a brilliant smile, and he couldn't help but smile back at somebody with such a pretty face and legs that went up to there…

"Wow, you guys were really hungry!" she noted.

"This is a nice place," Dean told her, Killer Smile deploying instantly, "The food is good, and the décor," he twitched a come-hither eyebrow, "Very attractive indeed."

A minute later, as she passed the table again, she gave him another smile, and discreetly slid a folded docket onto the table. Smiling to himself, he unfolded the paper.

It had her name, Katie, and a phone number on it. And under that, a note:

_Please pass this to your friend when he comes out._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Why are you so grumpy?" asked Sam.

"I'm not grumpy!" grumped Dean grumpily, shrugging off his jacket grumpily then sitting down on his bed grumpily.

"Dean, this is ridiculous!" Sam insisted. "Just because some woman wanted me to have her phone number – I thought you'd be pleased!"

"Course I am," Dean shot back, taking off his boots. Grumpily.

Sam ran a hand over his face. "Look, I'm not interested anyway," he said, holding out the offending docket, "Why don't you give her a call, and…"

"The Living Sex God does not have to make do with his brother's rejects!" declared Dean with as much dignity as he could muster. He said it very grumpily.

"That's absolutely true," agreed Sam, "The Living Sex God can take himself to a bar somewhere, and take his pick, any time he wants. So," he waved a hand, "Go hook up and get laid."

"Maybe I will," Dean snarked. "You do know you got what looks like steak sauce in your hair?"

Sam inspected his head in the speckled mirror. "I, uh, seem to have gotten it all over me," he admitted sheepishly, "I think some of it went through my shirt." He peered down said garment.

"That would explain why you smell of steak sauce and shrimp shells," humphed Dean. So," he went on casually, "You're not gonna call Katie, then?"

"No," confirmed Sam, pulling his shirt off and inspecting the sauce stains on it. "I just said I wasn't interested."

"Okay, then," Dean nodded, mollified somewhat, "Well, I will be watchin' TV, bitch, so if you're gonna… what the hell are you doin'?"

"You said I smell like steak sauce and shrimp shells," Sam replied, sliding out of his jeans, "I can't go out smelling like that, so I'll have to take a shower. Oh, yeah, I got it on these too."

"I thought you weren't interested in Katie!" said Dean, confused.

"I'm not," Sam confirmed, "Because I already made arrangements with Eva."

"Eva? Who the hell is Eva?" demanded Dean.

"The waitress from breakfast," Sam told him. "She asked first. Hey, can I take the car?"

"Be my guest," growled Dean, "Just don't you dare leave a mark on my Baby's upholstery, or I swear I will skin you and use your hide to replace the bits that get marked… Jesus H. Christ, Sam!"

"Thanks bro," smiled his baby brother, heading for the bathroom.

"How many times do I have to say it?" Dean yelled at his retreating back, "NO PARADING AROUND NAKED!"

"Dean, a walk from my bed to the bathroom is not 'parading'," Sam protested. "Besides," he paused at the bathroom door, "It's like Ronnie says, I'm not naked, right now I just don't have any…"

Dean threw a pillow at him.

"AND DON'T TURN AROUND, BITCH!"

* * *

Poor little Mavgang the plot bunny poked wiya's head up from under the desk a few days ago, got a look at Real Life, then let out a shriek of horror and scuttled away to hide behind a book shelf. Wiya refused to come out until today. I know the feeling...

But keep encouraging the bunny with your maaaaarvelous reviews, because Reviews are the Flamboyant Garments In The Dress-Ups Box Of Life!*

*Go nuts with the Bedazzler if you must.


	20. Chapter 19

Poor Mavgang the plot bunny has been floundering around under piles of OH&S documentation and dog obedience club paperwork, but thanks to your maaaaaahvelous reviews, wiya did manage to surface for long enough to dictate another chapter...

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

The day started off grumpily for Dean.

He had spent another boys' night in with Jimi, eating curry samosas and spicy Indian snack mix from an Indian place at the end of the block that did surprisingly good take-out, while he watched Mexican soap operas on cable. When the Indian food started working, he sat on Sam's duffel, taking a fragrant revenge and chortling to Jimi about the pack Alpha marking his territory. Jimi just wagged his tail and snuggled his Alpha, enjoying his company. Dean then had the vengeful pleasure of seeing his baby brother wrinkle his nose in disgust when he came home after midnight and went to change into his sleep sweats.

Dean insisted that they go to a different diner for breakfast, but their waitress gravitated towards Sam again, giving him an inviting smile and a phone number.

"I just hope you're bein' careful," growled Dean.

"I am," Sam assured him, "It's a couple of days yet to the full moon, and I make sure I don't think any, you know, wolfy thoughts – I haven't had any complaints, although Eva did say she thought I was a beast in the sack, but I think she meant it as a compliment…"

"Yaaargh!" Dean spat out a mouthful of coffee. "That's not what I meant! I meant, you know, the last thing we want is for you to leave a miniature baby boom in your wake. The idea of a bunch of shaggy little Samlets is scary enough, the idea of a bunch of shaggy little werewolf Samlets is just not something we can risk. Shit, the idea of havin' to come back here in the future to start shooting my nieces and nephews, that is not something I wanna hafta do."

"Oh, that," Sam nodded in understanding. "Yeah, no worries on that front. Although it raises an interesting question. With only one parent being a werewolf, would a kid be a werewolf too, you know, born a wolf? Or does that need both parents? They used to live in family groups, communities, but I don't know if the children were born to it, or whether they were bitten by their parents or something at a certain age. And if they're born to it, are they able to control it, and cognisant with it, or is that something they have to learn?"

"Well, don't go settin' up any long-term experiments to satisfy your curiosity," ordered Dean. "The last thing I want is any more frigging werewolves in the family – coping with what you do to my car is bad enough."

"Nothing you didn't do to my duffel," muttered Sam resentfully. "And I don't do it on purpose."

"Hell, it's bad enough that one of Jimi Senior's pups adopted one," Dean went on. "Seriously, I don't think I could cope with bein' related to one any closer than that."

However, things appeared to be improving markedly for Dean when he headed back to Real People later that day. Butch welcomed him warmly, and introduced himself to Lois the photographer. He let the Killer Smile slide into place as they shook hands.

"Oh my God, look at that smile," she purred.

"The camera is going to love him!" declared Butch.

"Why don't you come on through," she led Dean past the front desk to a room that turned out to be a studio, giving him time to check out and appreciate her very shapely figure as she bent down to take a form out of a desk drawer. "Now this is a list of the kind of jobs you might be willing to do," she began, with a smile, "For example, how do you feel about getting your shirt off?"

"Well, if you think I might have what you're lookin' for," Dean grinned back.

"Well, there's only one way to find out," she said archly, as she began to set up her camera and run through checking the lights.

"So, uh, how do they look?" he asked, after she'd taken enough shots.

"I think Butch is right," Lois smiled up at him, taking the camera and hooking it to a PC and printer set-up, "I think the camera loves you. And I think that clients will, too." She arched an eyebrow at him. "You're a very attractive man, Dean."

"You're a very engaging woman, Lois," replied the Living Sex God.

"So, you're new to Portland?" she asked casually, perusing his file as she scanned through the files on screen.

"Yep," he replied, "Well, newish. All alone in a big city. I'm hoping to make some friends."

Lois gave him a smile that matched his own. "Well, I'm really busy these next few days, got a lot of work to get through, but…" she slid a business card out of a desk drawer, "If you call me next week, maybe I can show you some local sights."

"I think I'd like that," he said.

"I don't like to be disappointed," she commented archly, "I hope you won't let me down, Dean."

"I think you'll find I'm not at all disappointing," he commented, and she laughed as they headed out of the studio.

"Lois," Butch wagged a finger at her, "Don't stare at him like you want to eat him, you'll scare him off…"

"Oh, it's okay, Butch," grinned Dean, "I don't scare easy."

"Good," whispered Lois for his ears alone, giving his butt a surreptitious pinch as she went back to the studio.

The Living Sex God returned to the motel room he was sharing with his brother, content in the knowledge that his mojo was alive and kicking.

"You look like the cat that got the cream," Sam commented. "No, belay that – you look like the Dean Winchester who got laid."

"I look like the Living Sex God," smirked Dean, "Who is the Living Sex God. Which is pretty much the same thing, I guess."

"Of course," Sam rolled his eyes, "So, I think I've managed to link two more of the disappearances to this agency."

"Great!" grinned Dean, clearly in a chipper mood, "We can celebrate by hittin' a bar tonight."

Sam looked at his watch. "There's time for me to go and check out Real People today," he decided. "Just another guy who wonders if he can make some extra money."

Dean's expression darkened. "Just stay away from Lois," he growled.

"Lois?" Sam blinked. "Who's Lois?"

"The photographer," Dean replied, "And she's already made arrangements with the Living Sex God as soon as she has some free time, during which time you will be far too shaggy to be of any use to her anyway, even if she likes it doggy style..."

Sam gave his brother a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "Dean, I'm goin' as part of a job, not to hit on the staff! Something you might remember when we're on a case," he added sourly.

"I didn't," Dean said smugly, "She hit on me."

"Whatever," sighed Sam, closing the laptop. "Just stay the hell away from my stuff while I'm not here, Mr Methane."

Dean gave him an angelic smile, which did not reassure him in the least.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They found a bar that night to play some pool, then Dean quizzed Sam about his experience at Real People.

"I see what you mean about Butch," Sam smiled ruefully. "He's, uh, colourful."

"You were gone a while," Dean noted, "Did you meet Lois?"

"Yeah, I did," Sam replied.

"Well?" demanded Dean.

Sam rolled his eyes, "Dean, we were introduced, she was polite, and she did a short beginner's folio shoot for me," he told his big brother. "Butch thinks I can probably pick up commercial work."

"And?" pressed Dean.

"And, she was completely professional, and seemed to know what she was doing," Sam went on. "She was friendly, but not forward, and very helpful. I'd have to say that her behaviour was entirely appropriate at all times."

"Well, of course," humphed Dean, apparently mollified, "She wouldn't be interested, knowin' that she's already made arrangements with the Living Sex God… what?" he watched as Sam's face clouded.

"There's something about the place I can't put my finger on," Sam told him, "It's, I dunno, it's like the place… smells… wrong, somehow."

Dean's ears pricked. "What, like, you think they might have corpses stashed under the floorboards or something?"

"No, it's not dead meat," Sam humphed, "I'd pick up on that, it's…"

"What?" Dean said. "Are you sure it aint just something that Butch dabs behind his ears? Can you describe it?"

"I can't describe a smell," Sam complained. "You might as well as ask me what a colour sounds like. It just… the place made my hackles go up."

Dean looked at his brother anxiously. "Jesus, Sam, it's not the full moon yet…"

"Figuratively, you jerk," Sam humphed, finishing his drink and gesturing to the bartender, "You want another one?"

"Yeah," Dean hurriedly drained his own drink, "If you're buyin' with your ill-gotten gains; I heard you growl at that guy while you were playin' pool."

"He was trying to psyche me out," Sam shrugged, "I figured I'd just return the favour."

The bartender brought their drinks, and flashed them a smile. "I like her," Dean noted happily, "She's got great legs. And great tops of her legs. And great above the tops of her legs."

Sam glanced at her too. "She's very attractive," he agreed, turning to watch the other patrons of the bar, "If you wanna stick around and watch her, I might wait a bit, then see if I can pick up another game…"

Another patron, who had clearly already imbibed a certain amount of intoxicating beverage, laughed loudly, and stumbled against Sam. Dean was instantly on the alert as the guy whirled around, presenting an angry face to his baby brother.

"Hey, watch where you're goin!" snapped the guy, who looked like some sort of biker.

"I'm just sittin' here," Sam said equably, taking another drink.

"You spilled my beer, asshole," sneered the other guy, "You owe me an apology. And another beer."

"You spilled it yourself," Sam pointed out, looking away. "Don't look at me."

Under such circumstances, Sam's usual strategy was peace-making, which often worked, but Dean was poised to leap into action as the burly man snarled and stepped up to his brother. "You little shit," he growled, "I oughta break your…"

Sam didn't growl. He didn't stand up. He didn't even move. He just did The Stare.

The colour drained from He-Man's face.

Then Sam smiled. "Maybe you should go home," he suggested in a friendly tone.

Biker dude couldn't get out of there fast enough.

"Way to go little bro!" chortled Dean, as Sam finished his drink, "Hey, for a moment there, I thought he was gonna JESUS SAM! TEETH!"

"Huh?" Sam turned to his brother.

"Teeth, bro!" Dean waggled his fingers in front of his mouth. "Your fucking fangs are showing!"

"Oh." Sam concentrated, and the long canines slid out of sight. "Uh, sorry."

"Let's hope nobody noticed," Dean muttered, grateful for the low lighting of the bar. "Don't do that. You just knocked five years off my life."

"Have another drink," suggested Sam, asking the bartender to leave the bottle. "This is good stuff."

Dean watched his little brother pour himself a double, and knock half of it back. "Yeah," he agreed, holding out his own glass, into which Sam sloshed a generous amount of amber liquid, "Just be careful, lightweight, I don't want to have to carry your ginormous Sasquatch wolfy ass out to the car."

"I will be," Sam promised. "So, what's our next move on this case?"

"Maybe a little bit of B&E?" Dean mused, giving the bartender the Killer Smile as she found another reason to brush past him again, smiling up at him, "See if we can find anything in the paperwork at Real People that might suggest what happened to the women who disappeared."

"There's one guy missing, too," Sam reminded him.

"Huh," sniffed Dean, "I saw that picture you found – he was so pretty he might as well have been a girl. What?"

"Nothing," grinned Sam, "Just makes me think that if some fugly is willing to grab pretty boys, then maybe your harebrained scheme of gettin' yourself snatched is gonna work."

"Bitch." Seeing Sam finish his drink, Dean quickly drained his own. "Hey, where are you goin'?"

"I told you," Sam replied, "Think I'll pick up another game of pool. Hey, get more wings, will ya? And some waffle fries."

"Raht away, Massa," warbled Dean, as Sam scowled, rolled his eyes, and topped up his own glass before drifting back towards the pool tables.

He ordered more bar snacks for his apparently starving brother, and the bartender paused, eyeing him in amused sympathy. "Your friend abandoned you?"

"He's my brother," Dean grinned ruefully, "And he'll be back when he thinks there's food. But for the moment," he leaned in casually, "There's just you and me."

"Well, that sounds cosy," she chuckled. As she leaned on the bar he got a good look at her chest. "Actually, now I've got you all alone," she began suggestively, "Maybe I can talk to you for a minute."

"Oh, I definitely got a minute for you, darlin'," the Killer Smile breached.

"That's convenient," she went on, "Because there's something I've been wanting to ask."

"Ask away," his eyebrows danced over the rim of his glass.

"Well, seeing as I've got you all alone here," she leaned in, "What's your brother's name?"

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Smiling At You Across The Waffle Fries In The Bar Of Life!*

*If it's Sam, he doesn't have to have his canines showing. If he is, I suggest that you let him have first go at the waffle fries.


	21. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

When Dean woke up in the morning, he was dead.

A moment later he realised that he wasn't _actually_ dead; he just _felt_ like he was dead.

In fact, given the way he felt, he thought he might not mind so much if he was dead.

Because if he was dead, his stomach wouldn't be making a spirited attempt to turn itself inside out, his tongue wouldn't have turned into a large chunk of dessicated dog crap and his head wouldn't be thumping like the double kick bass of the most demented metal drummer in the world.

Yup, he decided, right about now, dead doesn't sound so bad. Especially since some asshole had apparently glued his eyes shut.

He felt a weight shift on the bed beside him, then Jimi whuffed companionably, and like an adult tending tending and reassuring an unwell pup, began to wash Dean's ears.

"Yeurghlfrmmmg," protested Dean, hearing his own voice rasp, "Don't breathe so loud..."

He managed to prise one eye open: Jimi was on the bed with him, washing him tenderly, but otherwise he was alone.

Sam wasn't there.

The realisation cut through him like a gallon of coffee down the throat and a bucket of ice down the shorts. His brother was missing, on his watch.

He staggered upright, grabbing at the bed head to avoid falling over, and looked around wildly. On the bedside table there was a bottle of water, and a note scrawled in his baby brother's hand.

_DRINK THIS_

_I'll be back_

Dean prised his other eye open, and glanced out the window, wincing at the light. His Baby was not in her spot outside their room, and a further look around ascertained that her keys, and Sam's wallet and jacket, were gone.

So, Sam wasn't missing, Sam was just... gone.

Leaving him to suffer horribly from what was apparently a rapid-onset, severe acute case of a particularly virulent strain of some hideous viral disease. Leaving him to die slowly and painfully in a cruddy motel room, oblivious to his suffering. Leaving him all alone, while he went off to screw the bartender. Or maybe the waitress from their breakfast diner. Hell, why not both?

The ungrateful little bitch.

Dean dropped heavily back to his bed, and curled up unhappily. He'd been abandoned by his baby brother. His only consolation was that he would die with clean ears.

He lay there, conflicted; his bladder insisted that he at least try to get up again, whereas his head absolutely forbade him to move from horizontal. _I'll make you a deal,_ he told his brain,_ I'll stay horizontal for as long as possible, if you fill me in on what the fuck has happened_.

In the end, he managed to unglue the other eye, then roll off the bed and leopard crawl as far as the bathroom. The tiles were so nice and cool, he thought he might just lie there for a little while. Then he thought about the standard of the places they usually stayed in, and stumbled back to his bed, collapsing with a groan.

"What the fuck?" he asked the empty room, putting all his questions into that one query: What had happened between last night at the bar, and now? What was wrong with him? Where was Sam? Why had his brother abandoned him? _How could you leave me like this, little bro?_

He let out a small unhappy whine. Jimi whuffed dotingly, and began to wash the back of his neck. It felt oddly soothing.

Curled into a ball of misery, he almost didn't notice the rumble that heralded his Baby's return. However, the click of the key as Sam let himself back into the room sounded much too loud to his aching head.

" 'M awake," he slurred, as Sam moved silently, "Make 's much noise 's y' want."

"Well, that's a relief," Sam replied, "I was kinda worried."

"How very kind of you," muttered Dean. "So, was she any good?"

"Huh?" Sam turned to her in confusion.

"Was – she – any – good," Dean repeated, slowly, as much for his own head's benefit as for sarcastic effect.

"Was who any good?" his brother asked.

"Whoever," Dean flapped a hand listlessly, "The bartender. Or the waitress. Whatever. Was she any good?"

"Any good at what?" Sam sounded utterly bemused. "Here, I got Gatorade," he put down two bottles on the bedside table, "And coffee, which you probably shouldn't have, but we know that your body doesn't work according to the usual laws of pharmacology when it comes to caffeine, so..."

At the mention of the word 'coffee', Dean's brain rallied magnificently, allowing his body to sit up, grab the cup, and take a test sip of the steaming brew. It was like water in the desert, like sunshine after a long cold winter, like a new M-rated deviantART posting to a Destiel fan. "Ohhhhh," he sighed, "I think I may live after all."

"You really oughta drink some more water, and Gatorade, as well," Sam commented.

"I'll get to it," Dean mumbled, cuddling his coffee as if it was his favourite teddy bear, "So, answer the question, bitch, was she any good?"

"Was _who_ any good?" repeated Sam, bewildered. "I got some OTC meds for you, I think you might really need 'em, because your brain is clearly malfunctioning..."

"Whoever you went home with," clarified Dean, swigging more coffee, "After I came down with some terrible strain of flu last night."

"Went home with...? Flu...?" Understanding, and then exasperation, blossomed on Sam's face. "Dean, I didn't go home with anybody!"

Dean blinked blearily at his brother. "You didn't?"

"No!" Sam insisted.

"Where were you, then?" pressed Dean suspiciously. "When I woke up, you weren't here..."

"I wasn't here, because I went to get you coffee and stuff!" Sam threw his hands in the air. "When you started to mumble, I knew you'd want coffee. I was gone less than fifteen minutes!"

"You were here all night?" Dean said wistfully.

"Uh-huh," Sam nodded, "I couldn't leave you alone, not after the amount you drank. I was worried that you'd puke, or something, and choke on it. You don't have the flu, Dean. You're hungover." He took something out of the bag he'd been carrying. "Which is why I got you a bacon cheeseburger for breakfast. But I don't think you should try to eat it unless you're sure it'll stay down."

"Uh, yeah, okay," agreed Dean. "So, uh, last night. After the bar. We just came back here."

"You fell into bed, I pulled your boots off," Sam filled in the details, "I insisted that you take your jeans off, which resulted in you calling me a perv, and shouting at me not to 'touch the merchandise', around zero three hundred I don't know what you were dreamin' about but you were tryin' to make out with Jimi – don't worry, he didn't seem to mind, in fact I think he enjoyed the attention - and you snored like a chainsaw all night," Sam confirmed, peering at his big brother. "How much do you remember?"

Dean's mouth opened and closed a couple of times. "Well, all of it," he replied nonchalantly, "I remember the bartender, she had great, well, everything really. And she asked me your name," he added sullenly. "While you were playin' pool." He thought hard. "You bought another bottle after that," he went on.

"Yeah," Sam said, "Which you insisted on 'helping' me with, because I'm such a lightweight."

"Well, you are," Dean protested, "You know what you're like, a few drinks and you giggle like a girl, a few more drinks and you pass out like a girl..."

Dean might've been capable of attempting to destroy the last few bewildered clusters of neurons running his brain with alcohol, but he was a Hunter – no matter how bull-buggeringly drunk he might get, the Hunter Within was always watching, alert for threat, possibly dog-paddling in little circles in the pool of alcohol in which it was floating, but taking notes nonetheless.

It decided to share some flashes of recollection with him, as if brandishing a series of hideous flash cards before his mind's eye.

There was the second bottle of booze, for which he insisted on matching his brother drink for drink, because hey, he was the big brother

– _flash – _

There was the third bottle, for which he insisted on matching his brother drink for drink, because hey, he was the big brother

– _flash – _

The bartender cut him off, no matter how hard he pouted

– _flash – _

His baby brother cut him off, no matter how hard he pouted

– _flash – _

A batchelorette's night group very kindly offered to buy him another drink if he'd do a table dance for them; he got two beers and nearly a broken ankle out of that, before they spotted Sam

– _flash – _

Impromptu karaoke when 'Kashmir' came on, and the bartender warning him to behave himself

– _flash – _

A slow dance with the generously upholstered and magnificently moustachioed mother-of-the-bride from the hen's night group; it was like hugging a linebacker, but she bought him a drink

– _flash – _

The cranky drunk biker had shown up again, in the lot, with a friend, and tried to pick a fight with Sam. Sam had sighed, banged their heads together, then poured Dean into shotgun.

– _flash – _

"Dean, you'll be horribly uncomfortable, dude, can we just get your jeans off..."

"Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty Sasquatch!"

"Don't flatter yourself, Charlton."

"Your phreo... pheroro... fairyhomo... furrymoaning... your wolf smell won't work on me, bitch."

"I find that strangely reassuring. Come on, bro, bed..."

– _flash – _

_ERROR 404 – FURTHER RECOLLECTION OF LAST NIGHT NOT FOUND_

"Yeah, I remember last night," stated Dean with more conviction than he felt.

Sam's didn't look convinced. "So," he remarked casually, "You don't need me to fill you in on anything?"

"Course not," scoffed Dean, reaching carefully for one of the bottles of Gatorade (lest his head fall right off).

"I was worried about you," Sam said in the concerned and faintly accusatory tone that Dean recognised as a prelude to a Demand To Talk About Our Feelings. "You really did a number on yourself last night. What's wrong, Dean?"

"What's wrong," Dean replied, "Is that my head feels like some asshole is using it for bass kick drill practice, and some moisture vampire has sucked every molecule of water out of my body, I swear, if I move, I can hear myself rustling..."

"That's not what I mean," Sam huffed in a very Samesque fashion, "When something's bothering you, your preferred strategy is to destroy a few more gazillion brain dendrites with booze. So, spill, bro."

"I'm fine," replied Dean automatically, "The only thing I'm likely to spill is this Gatorade. Seriously," he looked into his little brother's puppy dog eyes, "I'm fine," he repeated. "There's nothing wrong. Well, apart from your newfound enthusiasm for nudism..."

_Or the way my little brother is turning into a chick magnet_

_Or the fact that if something goes wrong, he may need his... his pack more than he needs me_

"Really." He took a swig of the Gatorade, and washed down some of the pills.

"You sure?" pressed Sam.

"Absotively posilute," replied Dean firmly. "Relax, Sammy – sometimes, even the Living Sex God needs time off from the duty of sharing his awesomeness with the women of the world."

"Oh, I'm not at all worried about the Living Sex God," Sam cut in hurriedly, "He was alive and workin' his mojo last night, from what I could see."

"You think so?" Dean queried, racking his brain for some recollection.

"Definitely," Sam told him, "And don't make some comment about my 'rejects', bro, she went straight past me like I wasn't even there – every guy in the place was watchin' her, and she only had eyes for the Living Sex God. She was all over you like a rash, dude. I thought you'd already have plans to hook up tonight. She put her number in your phone." He blew out a breath. "Whoa, that cleavage, those leopard skin print leggings, and no VPL, I think she might've been goin' commando..."

"I'll think about it," Dean decided loftily. "Depends on what's happenin' with this case, of course, but the Living Sex God might decide to give his awesomeness an airing."

"Well, you'd better concentrate on gettin' yourself unhammered," Sam commented, "Why don't you eat your breakfast, and if you need anything else, I can go get it. Otherwise, I'll be over there, and before you say anything, I'll type and breathe as quietly as I can."

"Attaboy," Dean managed a grin, and drank more Gatorade, suddenly feeling much better.

_My brother worries about me._

_My brother stood up that bartender for me._

_And there aint nothing wrong with the Living Sex God._

With a small smile, he curled up again, and slid peacefully into a much-needed nap.

When Sam went out later to get them lunch, he quickly checked his phone for the number his brother said had been put there. Sam wasn't kidding: there was a phone number, and a selfie, including a view of the magnificent cleavage to which his brother had alluded.

Sam had been right about one thing; every eye in the place would've been on her.

For her daughter's sake, he hoped that the mother-of-the-bride outfit she chose for the big day was more appropriate for her age, and that she chose a more fitting foundation garment. And that she shaved for the wedding.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

By the afternoon, Dean had rallied enough to glare at his brother when Sam innocently asked, "So, you plannin' on hooking up tonight?"

"The Living Sex God does not hook up with cougars dressed as leopards, who grow more substantial facial hair than he does," Dean growled. "And who should probably consult an engineering firm for structural reinforcement before goin' out in public in a neckline that low. Jesus, she could kill a man with those things..."

"You know, talking about yourself in the third person has to be some sort of personality defect," Sam opined with a sunny smile.

"If you don't shut up, I will buy you a collar and leash for the full moon," griped Dean, "Or maybe I could take you to a 24-hour vet, and say hey, it's an emergency, my South African Hippohound keeps humping people's cars so he needs a little operation..."

He was interrupted by his cell. It was Butch from Real People, saying he thought he had a job for Dean.

"Yeah, I can come right over," Dean told him. "Butch thinks he has a job for me," he told Sam. "This will be a good opportunity to see how the place works."

Sam looked worried. "Leave your phone on," he stipulated, "If I don't hear from you within an hour, me and Jimi will come looking. Maybe we should come with you, wait in the car..."

"No," Dean shook his head, "It's important that you stay out of sight. I'll call in. This could be a vital piece of research, Sam – plus, I'll get paid for it. It's important for me to do this."

Sam looked at his brother shrewdly. "And of course," he began, "It has absolutely nothing to do with the possibility of spending more time in the company of Lois the photographer, does it?"

"Perks of the job, Sammy," Dean grinned broadly, "I gotta take what I can get, because in our line of work, the pay sucks."

"Just be careful," Sam sighed, knowing when he was beaten.

"Always," Dean grinned cockily as he picked up his jacket and keys.

The job Butch had in mind, the older man explained, was for a local department store. "They're looking for a new face," he explained, "And they picked you out. If you're interested." He handed over a sheaf of paper. "Not everybody is comfortable with the idea of doing beachwear and underwear, but it pays well. And Lois is very professional. She's very good at what she does."

"I bet she is," Dean murmured to himself, scanning the paperwork, his eyebrows going up at the amount of money on offer. "Yeah, I think I'd like to take this job."

"Wonderful!" enthused Butch, "You'll be able to negotiate to put some of the shots in your folio, too – this is a great first step for a guy like you, I think that once you've got this job under your belt, you'll be able to earn more next time around."

"So, what do I have to do?" asked Dean.

"Show up on time, and our stylist will be able to walk you through what's needed," Butch assured him. "Don't worry, we've had plenty of first-timers before, and we've never had one run screaming!" He examined Dean's face expertly. "You might need a little bit of foundation, but your bone structure and your eyes will do the rest." He ratted around in a desk drawer and picked out a card, scribbling some details on it. "Here," he handed it over, "They're very good, and a lot of our people use them, they know what to do – you get a discount when I send somebody to them. I'm really excited for you, Dean!"

"Yeah, me too," smiled Dean.

Back outside in the car, he examined the card. In a fussy font, it read:

_**Wax Lyrical**_

On the back was the note from Butch.

_Sally, please help Dean – be gentle, he's a virgin! Leg wax, spray tan, kthx._

* * *

So, will Dean go to the salon by himself, far too mortified to tell Sam, or will he need his little brother to hold his hand? Send reviews to prompt the bunny, because Reviews are the Perfectly Timed Hangover Treatments Brought To You By The Winchester Of Your Choice When You've Been Hit Over The Head By The Depressingly Solid Parsnip Of Real Life! Darn you, Real Life! Darn you to heck!


	22. Chapter 21

I nearly split this one into two separate chapters, but I think it probably works best all together like this. And will make the Denizens happier, because they approach their chapters the way Dean approaches sex: they like it to last as long as possible. And involve nudity, for preference.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One**

"So, you gonna take the job?" asked Sam.

"Yeah," shrugged Dean, "I don't often get opportunities to make money off the awesomeness of the Living Sex God, so I might as well while I can."

Sam looked thoughtful. "Well, you could," he pointed out, "There was that time we were workin' that case in Pennsylvania, and you did that stripper routine to Nine Inch Nails, you made several hundred in tips for less than ten minutes' work, if I recall..."

"Sam..."

"And there was that case in Massachusetts, the escort agency running out of that old building that was haunted, and the manager offered you a job on the spot, said she'd pay you whatever the FBI was and then some..."

"Sam..."

"And correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that Mistress Amanda in Nevada told you that if you were interested, she could line you up with some very lucrative paying customers, because apparently the Silver State is just full of women who would pay enormous sums of money for the privilege of spending an hour tying you to..."

"Sam!" Dean snapped, "That's not the point! The point is, the point _is_, in _this_ case, here and _now_, I can pick up some cash while we're workin' a job."

"And possibly pick up a photographer," guessed Sam.

"Not my fault if I'm irresistible to frisky women," Dean sniffed.

"Or cougars with a lot of energy for their age," Sam reminded him helpfully.

"Shut up, bitch." Dean dropped the car's keys. "I think I'll turn in early tonight," he decided.

"Sounds sensible," Sam nodded, "And I should stay here, too."

"What, you haven't got women to ravish, Cujo?" enquired Dean pointedly.

"I gotta be here to watch your back," Sam told him seriously, "in case there are any cougars roaming around – I see even a suggestion of a flash of leopard skin print, and I'll leap into action."

"Gee, I feel so safe," grunted Dean, dropping onto his bed where Jimi greeted him happily. He grabbed up the remote, and started flicking through channels. "What I need is to find a Dr Sexy marathon."

"Well, knock yourself out," suggested Sam, "Can I take the car?"

"Aha!" yapped Dean, "I knew it! You're off to screw some unsuspecting woman's brains out!"

"I'm sure this conversation is meant to be the other way around, but no," Sam rolled his eyes and gave Dean a _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "I got a job for myself."

Dean sat up. "You got a job at Real People?"

"No," Sam clarified, "At the university – there was a notice at the Real People office, seeking models for art classes. I gave 'em a call yesterday."

"Art classes?" repeated Dean. "As in, standin' around in a room full of strangers, naked?"

"No," Sam answered, "It's just standing around in a room full of strangers, with no clothes on."

Dean gazed at his baby brother. "You're not tellin' me that it's the complete strangers with no clothes on, are ya?" he said flatly.

"If people are gonna practise their drawing, or painting, or sculpting, they gotta have a body to look at for reference," Sam shrugged. "And I'll get paid. It's no big deal."

Dean's eyes bugged. "No big deal? No big deal? My baby brother, who usually blushes if women just look at him, will be standin' there, bareassed, while a whole bunch of pervs, weirdos and, and, and weirdo pervs look at you, and it's no big deal?"

"Dean, these people are fine art students!" Sam huffed in exasperation, "They won't be _looking _looking at me, they'll be looking at the shape of me, and practising drawing it!"

"Huh, for you, maybe, but not for them..."

"Oh, God." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Dean, the depiction of the male nude is a classical form of art that goes back centuries, millennia, even, and the focus is on the aesthetics of the depiction. Some of humankind's most amazing art masterpieces are nudes: think of the statue _David,_ or Rodin's _The Age of Bronze_, or even the _Creation of Adam_ in the Sistine Chapel..."

"Don't you go all Sister Wendy on me," scowled Dean, "I've seen her, grinnin' up at those pieces of 'art'. Consecrated virgin my ass, we know what she's thinkin'." Putting on a huge smile and jutting his front teeth over his bottom lip, Dean channelled one of Sister Wendy's expositions in a teddibly British voice. "The first thing, the very first thing, that I notice about this statue, what jumps out at me, and strikes me, is that this man has an absolutely enormous scrotum..."

Sam gave up. "You're a philistine, you know that?" he sighed in a resigned fashion.

"But Sam," Dean sounded wistful, "What if there are non-hot women there?"

"It's irrelevant!" Sam snapped back, "It's irrelevant, Dean! What the students look like is irrelevant! What the model looks like is irrelevant! It's art practice, not some sort of orgy! Look, do I have to go through this with you again? There's the way life actually works, and then there's the scenarios that pop into your head. Think of them as two completely separate, hermetically sealed boxes, Dean. Porn – reality. Porn – reality. Porn – reality."

"What about your, you know, your essence of Sam?" Dean asked. "your Whiff of Werewolf cologne? Can you keep that under control, huh?"

"Oh, my fairyhomos, you mean?" asked Sam brightly, "Or would that be my furry moanings?"

"You know what I mean," Dean growled.

"I think that's largely to do with context," Sam tried to explain, "I don't think it'll be a problem, in an atmosphere of aesthetic detachment. I'll get us dinner on the way back," he wheedled. "I'll get hamburgers, and waffle fries, and pie."

"Pie?" Dean eyed his brother suspiciously.

"Plenty of pie," confirmed Sam.

Dean threw him the keys. "Well, okay," he grumped, "But watch out for any women who try to set up their easels too close. Unless they're hot. In which case, if one of them asks for your number afterwards, it's probably okay. I hooked up with this chick, once, she was a painter, and man, those brushes can really tickle..."

"Jerk."

While Sam was gone, Dean took out the salon card, and looked at it. On the one hand, there was no way that he wanted his brother to know that he was getting thatdone.

On the other hand, there was something decidedly frightening about the idea of holding still while somebody spread hot wax onto skin for the purposes of ripping it off and taking hair with it.

On the _other_ other hand, there was _no way_ he wanted his _brother_ to know that he was getting _that_ done.

He picked up his phone, and made a call.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The next day, after breakfast, Dean waited until Sam was deeply engrossed in something on his laptop, then casually mentioned that he had somewhere to be.

"There's somethin' I gotta go check out," he told Sam, "Don't fart on my bed, bitch."

Sam's head came up. "Research for the job?"

"Kind of," nodded Dean.

"I'll come with you..."

"No, no, you stay here," Dean insisted hurriedly, "See if you can find any way that the last disappearance was connected in any way with Real People."

Sam looked worried. "Dean, if you're gonna go and poke at something that could raise a fugly..."

"Stay here," Dean said firmly, "It's nothing I can't handle myself. In fact, it's probably better if you stay here, pheromone boy, because there will be women present."

Sam humphed. "Dean, I had no problem at the art class yesterday; like I thought, it's largely contextual."

"Well, you can stay here and be contextual," Dean specified, "I'm not havin' you distractin' women, oozin' your Essence of Alpha, and standin' around looking totally available."

"I do not stand around looking totally available!" Sam protested. "No more than you do," he added snidely.

"That's because I'm the Living Sex God," Dean smirked smugly, "And for me, it's totally natural. Whereas for you, it's because you're temporarily an abomination, so it's unnatural, and therefore wrong."

"Wow," remarked Sam sourly, "Perhaps I should be sprayin' myself with air freshener every hour on the hour?"

"It couldn't hurt," grinned Dean. "Just don't pick one with lavender in it or you'll be ridin' in the trunk. Why don't you enjoy some outside time, because in a day or so, you'll be confined to barracks during the full moon. Go and find a deer to chase down, tear apart with your bare hands, and eat. Take Jimi. Make a picnic lunch of it."

Looking a lot more cocky than he felt, he headed out.

Sam stared after him. "What's goin' on with him?" he said to the universe in general as he turned back to his laptop. "Huh. Demons I get, but big brothers, they're crazy."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It wasn't decorated in shades of pink and lilac, it didn't have oil infusers spreading Essence Of Sissy, and there was no whale porno soundtrack running.

Somehow, that just made him more apprehensive as he approached the desk, where a woman who was tapping at a keyboard looked up and smiled warmly.

"Hello," she began, "I'm Toni. How can I help you?"

He suddenly felt tongue-tied, even in the presence of a woman who would clearly be a candidate for worship at the altar of Friskytimes with the Living Sex God. "Hi, uh, I'm Dean, I'm here for, uh..." he handed over the card. "I called yesterday. Butch from Real People said I should come and see you..."

Understanding dawned on her face. "Ah," she went, "Yes, we're ready for you! Don't worry, we've had many of Butch's first timers here, we know the drill! Come on through, I'll introduce you to your therapist."

He followed her into a small treatment room where another woman was fussing with something that looked like a small cauldron. "This is Kathy," she turned and held out a hand as Toni introduced her. "Kathy, this is your client Dean. Kathy is one of our most experienced aestheticians," Toni reassured him, "You'll be in good hands."

"Oh, uh, great," Dean managed to find a polite smile, as Toni left them to it.

"So, Dean," Kathy began, "Have you ever had anything like this done before?"

"No," he replied, "No, definitely not. I'm pretty sure I'd remember if I had." He glanced at the cauldron, which appeared to be full of some ghastly thick gloop. A bubble slowly rose to the surface, and popped stickily. _Although it's possible that I have, and I've repressed the memory_, he thought.

"Well, I'll explain everything as we go," she assured him, "And you can tell me if anything's wrong at any time, if you feel uncomfortable, or too cold, just say." She picked up a clipboard. "First of all, there are a few questions I need to ask about your health, any medications you might be on..."

The check-list done, she put the clipboard down. "So," she said brightly, "Do you have any questions before we start?"

"Um... doesn't it hurt?" he blurted out, eyeing the pot of gloop.

"It does sting a bit," Kathy told him, "Because hair is being removed from the root, but I've never had a client run away. Mostly, I tell my male clients, just remember, women have been doing this for longer than you guys, and further up too, and we don't bitch about it."

"I'll try to remember that," he gave her a wan smile.

"Okay then," she handed him a small scrap of what looked like tissue paper, "You get changed, then lie on the table with the towel over you."

"Okay," he turned the paper over in his hands. "What's this?"

"It's a disposable thong," Kathy explained, taking it and turning it around to demonstrate. "I'll be back in a few minutes; I'll knock before I come back in."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam and Jimi went for a walk later, when Sam's stomach began to growl, and Jimi began to slaver in sympathy. They bought wings, and found a small pleasant park to sit and share them.

"It can't be a woman," he mused out loud, holding out a wing for Jimi, "If it was, he'd have been all waggling eyebrows and single entendres – he wouldn't be at all evasive if there was the slightest chance of maybe grossing me out."

A man walking a good-natured Neapolitan Mastiff went past. The dog gave them a whuff of acknowledgement, and Jimi exchanged polite sniffs with him, while the owner indignantly yapped at Sam,

"Hey, you shouldn't let your dog eat cooked chicken bones, that's..."

Sam lazily gave him The Stare, bit heartily into a wing of his own, and crunched contentedly.

The man's jaw snapped shut.

Sam smiled. Then he gruffed briefly to the mastiff.

_Get your Alpha out of my scent range_

"Twinkle!" the man yelped as the large dog began to tow him away, "Twinkle, what the hell are you doing? Twinkle, stop!"

"Serves him right," Sam humphed to himself, "What sort of a dick names a dog like that Twinkle?"

He thought about calling Dean, but then decided that his brother would not appreciate being checked up on. No, he'd show his brother the trust he wanted himself, and let Dean get on with whatever he was doing.

They finished the wings, then Jimi decided to go and bark at the ducks on the pond. They ignored him, but he enjoyed woofing at them.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You're not too bad," Kathy assured Dean, as he huddled under a large fluffy towel, with just one leg sticking out, "I do this for guys who are much hairier than you. There are some real gorillas out there; you don't even come close."

"I shall take that as a professional opinion that I'm an evolved individual," he replied, the Killer Smile peeking out from behind his anxiety as she pressed the cloth strip onto his shin – in fact, he was a bit worried that he might become 'inappropriately unanxious', because she'd even warmed her hands before she started with the talcum powder, and the wax was warm, and it didn't pull because she was clearly good at this, "So, how long have you been doing..."

Something went _zrrrrip._

And then his brain exploded.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam laughed as Jimi jumped into the pond, swimming eagerly after the ducks, who were clearly veterans of demented dogs trying to eat them – they just glided smoothly away, leaving Jimi paddling in circles, barking a hopeful invitation to play.

"I don't think they wanna let you into their clubhouse, dude," he chuckled, as Jimi finally got the message and headed for shore. "They can be snooty like that." Not to be downcast by the rejection, Jimi put his nose to the ground, and happily began to follow a smell.

Sam followed after him. Maybe Dean was right; he should enjoy being outside while he could. It was a nice day, and he enjoyed the sun on his face, and the breeze in his fur... er, hair. He thought of his big brother again, then chastised himself.

"I shouldn't worry," Sam said out loud, "Dean said he could handle it, whatever 'it' is, and I should trust him on that."

An enticing smell came to his nose – somewhere close by, a doughnut shop was open for business.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"See?" Kathy prompted, "Not so bad, is it?"

Dean was no stranger to pain – he was a Hunter, he'd been beaten up by Lucifer himself, he'd been to _Hell,_ for fuck's sake, he knew what it felt like to have your skin peeled off, and he was barely game to look at her, fearing that she'd be standing there, holding a long, dripping piece of his hide, the vessels still pulsing and the muscles underneath twitching...

In fact his leg was completely intact, except for a bald strip down the front, and Kathy was holding what looked like a rather flat caterpillar.

"Yep, all you," she grinned, seeing the look of shock on his face. "It's a bit of a shock the first time you see it."

"Christo," he squeaked, not able to understand how something could feel like that without blowtorch involvement, "Uh, I mean, who'da thunk it?"

"We're underway now," she assured him, pressing the strip to his leg again, "So we'll be done before you know it."

"Uh, good," his hands took a death grip on the side of the treatment bed, "Because..."

_zrrrrip_

He probably left his fingerprints in the metal frame.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"I think I can see why Dean's always so keen to stuff his face with these," Sam said to Jimi as they shared a large bag of doughnuts. "Oh, God, these are fantastic!"

While Jimi snuffled determinedly into the empty bag, he stood up, and looked up to the sky. It was a lovely day, and he had a sudden urge to run, for the sheer hell of it, because he could, to havethe wind against his face and smell the scents of the foliage and feel the earth beneath his paws... er, feet. With a start, he found he was stopping himself from howling at the delight of being there, and alive, in that moment.

The full moon was only a day away. He could feel the pull of it. He must've been twitching with it, he realised. So Dean had bugged out, and left him to get outside, and let him work some of it out of his system.

He grinned to himself. His big brother was awesome. He should buy Dean some doughnuts too.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It will end, Dean reminded himself, surreptitiously getting the hem of the towel under him between his teeth for muffling purposes. It will end, and it will be over, you've survived worse than this, it's not even an injury, it's just

_zrrrrip_

He bit through the seam.

"You're doing very well," Kathy told him, wielding the powder like the professional sadist that she clearly was, "A lot of guys really start screaming by the time you get to the backs of their thighs."

"I'm good," he trilled, as wax came into contact with skin that was getting perilously high, "Uh, how far up does this go?"

"Well, if you'll be doing underwear, it's best to go all the way up," she answered matter-of-factly, "You don't want any fluffy patches poking out!"

"No, no, definitely not," Dean nodded vigorously, "No fluffy patches, can't have that, death to fluffy patcheseeeeeEEEEEEE..."

"Okay, now just bend your knee a little bit for me, great..."

_zrrrrip_

He left teeth marks in the padding of the bed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

_I should do this more often, _Sam thought to himself,_ Get out from behind the laptop and the books, and just… be._

It was something that Dean and Bobby both pestered him with from time to time, but there was always something that needed doing, something that needed checking, research that needed attention, a translation that needed reading…

He felt Jimi's head butt under his hand, and the dog gave him a lolling doggy grin and rumphed contentedly. _We are strong and happy!_

"You could learn from that little critter," Bobby had said when Jimi Junior was just a puppy, who could drop everything just to sniff at a weed, or sit content just to be with his family. "Learn from the carefree soul of a puppy. Just leave out the bit that involves peeing on the carpet."

_Our pack is strong and happy,_ Sam gruffed back, feeling the goofy grin on his face, and not caring. On the way home, he'd buy some beer and snacks for his brother. Just because.

With a bark, Jimi dropped into a play-bow, and woofed a cheeky challenge.

Sam laughed out loud, broke into a run – and the race was on.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean wondered how many men had been there before him, staring at the mockingly bland ceiling, whilst some viciously friendly evil bitch tortured them with hot wax in ways that should earn jail time

_zrrrrip_

It made his toes curl. It made his hands curl. It made his teeth curl. It made his brain curl…

"Okay," The sadistic torturing cow announced, "Just turn over for me while I turn this one off."

"Are we done?" His voice came out a lot higher pitched than he'd expected. It was making his tonsils curl too, and he thought he could feel a breeze somewhere that bare skin hadn't felt a breeze since he was a toddler and Mommy had let him run around on a fine day with no diaper on…

"Almost," the fiend in a woman-suit told him. "We'll just swap to the hard wax to finish off."

"Finish off?" He repeated, repositioning himself under the towel and clutching at it like a virgin clutching her skirts at a frat house keg party.

"Uh-huh," she transferred her attention to another pot. "The hair on your brief-line is a bit coarser… uh, just let go of the towel Dean… great. And you don't have much of a happy trail, so we'll just tidy you up a bit. Unless," she smiled at him, a shark in nymph's clothing, "You're feeling brave, and you'd like to go a manzilian…"

The noise he made, or possibly just the look on his face, conveyed the answer of 'No'.

"Well, then, we're nearly done," the she-devil and concubine of the Anti-Christ told him, "Then we can get to work on

_zrrrrip_

your tan."

"Meeeeep," went Dean, glad he was already horizontal.

The exfoliation and actual spraying was a walk in the park after his run-in with a neophyte of the modern day Spanish Inquisition, and by the time Sam found out, he was as cocky and nonchalant as ever.

However, his brother did notice for some months afterwards that whenever they had to do any sort of ritual that involved the use of a candle, Dean had a tendency to flinch at the sight of melted wax.

* * *

If you don't know who Sister Wendy Beckett is, you are a philistine whose education has been sadly neglected – hit YouChoob and find out. Then Dean's impression will make more sense. You may also have seen her being gently mocked by the 'Vicar of Dibley'.

Send the bunny lovely reviews to eat, because Reviews Are The Carefree Days Of Frolicking In The Park Of Life! With Doughnuts Supplied!

What?

Oh, very well.

Those of you who are not that interested in Carefree Frolicking may attend the Life Drawing Class Of Life (With Winchester Of Your Choice As Model supplied). You depraved beldames. At least try to draw/paint/sculpt something. Just sitting there and drooling is considered bad form.


	23. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"Ah, perfect timing," announced Sam as Dean strolled in the door. "We got burgers, we got wings, we got fries, we got beer, we got pie, we got snacks, aaaaaaand," he hefted a large greasy-looking bag, "I got you doughnuts."

Dean stared at him. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" he demanded.

"Jerk," Sam barely rolled his eyes, "You don't have to eat it. Me and Jimi can take care of it... Dean?" Sam's tone turned concerned as he watched his brother walk across the room. "Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, peachy and okey-dokey, Sam," smirked Dean, suppressing a shudder at the strange sensation in his trousers; things felt... drafty. And when he felt a cold draft, the feeling of the hair on his legs trying to stand on end, but nothing happening because all the follicles had been clear-felled, was decidedly weird. "It turned out to be a dead-end." He sniffed. "You got pie?" he pressed hopefully.

"What sort of a little brother would I be if I forgot your pie?" grinned Sam. "But you gotta eat your mains first – no pie for you until your burger is completely gone."

"Yes, Mom," drawled Dean. "You got leaves and stuff in your hair."

"Well, we had a race and, uh, I fell over," Sam looked sheepish. "I'm not as fast on two legs as I am on four."

"Well, I hope you got it outta your system," Dean frowned, "Because as of tomorrow evening, you are on curfew. Just in case. I aint havin' you wanderin' around, suddenly turnin' into Follicula the Great Beast, and scarin' the civilians. And don't do the eyes thing," he ordered, "It's for your own good, Rinny." He reached into a paper bag and pulled out a bacon double cheeseburger. "I never thought I'd ever be this comfortable letting my baby bro make our menu choices," he remarked.

"Well, I won't be, if I'm on lock-down," humphed Sam, "You'll be in charge of catering. Although we could probably get a lunch in at that other place with the eat-it-in-an-hour-and-it's-free offer, we still haven't gone to..."

"Not tomorrow, Sam," Dean grinned, "The Living Sex God will be workin' his mojo – his money-earning mojo – at his first modelling job."

"I'm not completely happy about you goin' to that place, when I may not be in a position to back you up," complained Sam. "It smells... funny. Wrong. And I don't know why."

"Well, you can concentrate on finding out what it is," Dean told him, shoving a handful of waffle fries into his mouth and dropping a couple for Jimi.

"Hey, how come the Big Eyes Thing works for him?" protested Sam.

"Because he's adorable," Dean sniffed disdainfully, dropping another fry for the dog, "And you aint."

They ate their dinner, bickering in a comfortable brotherly fashion, until Dean said to his brother, "So, you need to take the car?"

"What?" Sam looked puzzled. "Why would I need to take the car?"

"To go have chandelier-dangling sex with some random chick, duh," Dean rolled his eyes, "Mr Beast In The Sack. Enjoy it while you can – you're grounded from tomorrow."

Sam gave him a long look. "If you've got some pre-job 'coaching' with Lois arranged and you want me out of the way, all you gotta do is say," he chuckled. "Maybe not to do you any favour, but the last thing I wanna see is my brother doin' the horizonal hula..."

"Nah," Dean waved a hand languidly, "I'm kinda beat. Think I'll turn in early tonight. Gotta look fresh for the camera tomorrow."

"But you need me here!" Sam exclaimed. "To protect you from the cougars!"

"Bitch," griped Dean. "What's the matter, your wolf stink not workin' any more? Less Essence of Alpha, more Whiff of Wet Dog?"

"Well. we did meet a girl at the park," Sam admitted, "She was walkin' her dog – a Doberman – and me and Jimi were, uh, kind of having a bit of a rassle, and the Doberman came over and joined in, and for a minute there, when I looked up, I thought she was gonna join in, too..."

"I don't believe this is happening," announced Dean in a level voice, "But I can feel the phrase 'too much information' hurrying towards my lips. It must be another apocalypse." He threw the car keys at his baby brother. "So, go rassle with Madam Doberman," he made a shooing motion at Sam, "But if I find out that you let the dog join in, I will end you for the freak that you are."

"Thanks, bro," Sam smiled, pulling out his cell.

After he'd headed out, Dean ended up making his own Dr Sexy marathon on the laptop, eating doughnuts and and hurling abuse at the characters who tried to thwart his favourite soap character.

Later, he took a quick, careful shower – he'd been given an information leaflet (the instruction that having sex would be a very bad idea made him sigh sadly), and Kathy had told him that it would be a good idea to have a short rinse before bed. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and thought it really didn't look so bad after all; kind of surfer dude, maybe. Chicks might like it. Hell, chicks _would_ like it, because it was on the Living Sex God...

Reassured somewhat, he headed for bed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam came sneaking in soundlessly in the wee small hours. Dean grinned as he heard the distinct sound of a bag of doughnuts being deposited on the small table.

"Was she any good?" he asked the darkness.

"Justine, or her dog?" came the innocent query.

"Bitch."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to let the dog join in?"

"Shut up and go to bed, Sam."

They went back to sleep for a few hours.

Sam was in the bathroom when Dean woke, and performed the time-honoured ritual of Man Arising (yawn, stretch, fart, scratch groin). As he hauled himself out of bed and started to dress, his nose twitched at the smell of doughnuts hanging in the air like a glorious perfume. Yeah, maybe having his little brother as a werewolf wasn't completely bad...

"Mornin'," Sam yawned, strolling past to his own bed, wearing nothing but the skin the Almighty gave him.

Okay, scratch the 'not completely bad' thing.

"Oh, God," Dean moaned, "How many times do I have to say it? Clothes, Sam, clothes! You know, those pieces of fabric that people wear? To cover themselves up?"

"I'm putting some on now," Sam shrugged, reaching into his duffel, and beginning to dress. Once he had pants on, he moved to the window to let some morning light in.

"Well, if you could just work on the whole get-dressed-before-I-have-to-look-at-you thing, that'd be great," Dean pulled his sleep tee off over his head.

"It's kinda funny," Sam chortled, "Havin' you turn into somebody's maiden aunt, because... AAAAAAARGH!"

"Sam!" Dean flung his shirt away, watching his little brother's eyes bug as Sam fell flat on his ass, "What's wrong?"

Sam's mouth opened and shut a couple of times before he managed to get a word out. "You!" he yipped, "Dean! What? Dean? Dean! You're... you're..."

"I'm me, dude," Dean grinned, bemused, "Are you feelin' okay?"

"I should be asking you that," yelped Sam, staring as he climbed to his feet. "Dean, what happened?"

"Whaddyamean, what happened?" Dean asked. "I was just puttin' on a shirt," he reached for said garment, "When my baby bro suddenly went... YAAAAAAAARGH!"

In the light coming through the window, he got a look at himself.

"Dean," Sam asked in a tentative voice, "What happened to you?"

Dean stared down in horror at himself. At his strangely coloured self.

"JESUS CHRIST I'M ORANGE!" he shrieked.

"When did this happen?" demanded Sam, as Dean spun around in a circle, apparently trying to see if his back was the same astonishing colour. "Dean, when did this happen?"

"I'm orange!" Dean howled, "I'm orange! Saaaaaam, I'm oraaaaaange!"

"Dean!" Sam snapped, "Dean! Listen! When did this happen..." Dean was beginning to hyperventilate.

Sam dumped the doughnuts out of the bag and onto the table.

"Here, breathe into this, bro," he instructed, handing the bag to Dean.

Whether it was the re-establishment of sufficient blood levels of carbon dioxide, or the soothing scent of deep fried doughnuts, the exercise calmed Dean down.

"Okay, that's better," noted Sam, "Now, let's think about this. People don't just turn orange for no reason. Carotenosis can be an indicator of a number of disease processes..."

"It was meant to be a tan!" Dean wailed in despair.

"So, we should get you to a clinic, and... huh?" Sam paused, mid-diagnosis. "Did you say, 'tan'?"

"It was meant to be!" Dean repeated. "It was meant to turn me into a surfer dude! Not an Oompa-Loompa!"

Sam's eyes bugged. "Are you... are you sayin' that you did this _on purpose_?"

"It was for my job," Dean told him, "Kathy said I didn't need much, just a bit to even out my colour for the camera..."

Understanding dawned on Sam's face. "Oh, thank fuck for that," he sighed, "I was really worried there for a minute. SunnyD."

"You were worried?" snapped Dean, examining his arms, "_You_ were worried? How do you think I feel?"

"Like a pumpkin?" suggested Sam brightly. Dean shot him a scowl. "No, seriously, bro, it's supposed to be like that."

"How... how could anybody possibly be meant to look like this?" his big brother demanded. "It's not natural!"

"Well, of course it's not natural!" Sam agreed, "It's a fake tan, duh!"

"I can't model underwear like this," Dean moaned, "I can't, nobody will want to take photos of a guy who looks like he's stepped out of Willy Wonka's factory..."

"Dean, calm down!" ordered Sam. "You're supposed to look like that!"

"No I'm not!" Dean snapped, "Not even Mr Potato Head's friend Katie the Carrot is supposed to look like this! Not even those freaks on _Jersey Shore_ are supposed to look like that!"

"For the camera!" Sam clarified, "You have to look like that for the camera!"

Dean glared dubiously at him.

"Look, it's because of what lighting does to people, especially at close range," Sam explained, "You got flashes goin' off, they wash out all the colour and shade and depth, especially at close range like a modelling shoot. You'd come out looking like a zombie, otherwise. It's why people on stage, or on film, wear so much make-up. In real life, you look like you've rolled in the stuff, but in photography, you come out looking, well, normal, without the photographer having to do too much retouching. It's easier to cover the subject in make-up – including tan – first, than it is to try to fix the colours and contrast and gamma balance later." He gave his brother his most earnest expression. "Trust me, Snooki, I went to college..."

"Bitch," scowled Dean, humphing at his new hue. "Well, at least it's only temporary. Now, go get breakfast. I aint goin' out in public lookin' like this."

"I'm on it," Sam grabbed the car keys. "You need anything else? Moistuiser? Lip gloss? Hair product?"

"Get me a newspaper – I'm gonna roll it up, and whack you with it."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean headed out later, giving Sam strict instructions that, if he went out, he was to be back at their room well before moonrise.

Once he was at Real People, Lois was undertaking the arcane rituals of the order of photographers, whilst the stylist, a motherly woman named LInda, dabbed at him with foundation and messed with his hair.

"Am I really supposed to be this colour?" Dean asked her mournfully.

"I'm afraid so," she reassured him, "It is a bit confronting, the first time, but you'll see, in print it'll come out looking just right."

"Uh, what exactly is that stuff?" he asked, as she took a handful of gloop and proceeded to perpetrate what could only be described as zhushing on his hair.

"Just a bit of wax," she replied, tweaking at a recalcitrant tuft, "The lighting can make it look flat, otherwise, and we don't want that."

"No, no, definitely not," Dean looked at himself in the mirror, and began to think of the ways he would get back at Sam if his brother used the words 'toilet' and 'brush' in the same sentence. "Can't have that."

"Okay, done!" Linda chirped, "So, now we hand you over to Lois, and she and her lights have their wicked way with you."

"Well, that doesn't sound so bad," he grinned.

When Lois was happy with the set-up, she gave them a thumbs-up, and went back to fiddling with her camera. Linda took Dean aside to what looked to him like a box of stuff ready to go off to a Goodwill store.

"They sent a couple of sizes of everything," she announced, picking up a pair of board shorts, "We'll start with the beach stuff." She herded him towards a screen. "Try those on, and we'll see how they fit."

"Okay." Dean obliged, and emerged to Linda's careful scrutiny. "Uh, how do they look?"

"My, you really are a clothes horse, aren't you?" she smiled, "Just let me look at the back, there."

"Uh, is it just me, or is it kinda cold in here?" he asked, with a bit of a shiver.

"Oh, we try to keep the studio cool, because of the lights," Lois told him, as Linda tweaked at the fabric around the waistband, "They get very hot, and we don't want you to sweat. Besides," she added, with a grin, "I always think that men look better in these shots if they're, you know... perky."

"So," Linda went on brightly. "You'll get the hang of this. Now, see that tape on the floor? That's your mark. So, stand on that, face this way, now, look up there, and smile as if you're seeing a beautiful girl up on the balcony..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam and Jimi went for another walk later, met some other dog people, ate wings, and charmed the staff at a café where they stopped for coffee. Sam was mildly amused that he got an extra cookie and a phone number, whilst Jimi got several tidbits dropped from plates going back to the kitchen, pats from passers-by, some friendly butt-sniffs from their dogs, and a big hug from a little girl whose amazed mother informed him that the child had previously been afraid of dogs.

"Well, he's just a friendly soul inside a scary-looking body," Sam explained, as Jimi kissed the little girl's nose, making her giggle. "He wants to make friends with everybody."

"Bye-bye Jibi!" piped the toddler as her mother led her reluctantly away.

Sam turned to look down at the dog. "I acknowledge your mastery," he said, "For the Big Brown Eyes thing, I accept that I will never match you."

"Rumph," went Jimi, meaningfully eyeing the crumbs of Sam's cookie.

_It must be because the full moon is tonight_, he mused, contemplating the strange sense of restless joie de vivre he'd been feeling. _Dean was right, I'd better make sure I'm back at the room in plenty of time._

Buying plenty of snacks on the way back, he started up his laptop, and thought about the case.

Disappearing aspiring models. Disappearing. Where did they go? People didn't just disappear into thin air. Horrible, awful things could happen to them, making them (or what was left of them) pretty damned difficult to find, but physical matter didn't just disappear. That included human beings. Alive or dead.

He had tracked down some photos of the previous incarnation of Real People, and managed to find one of Butch. That was something else strange – for a guy running a modelling agency, there was a surprising lack of photos of him. You'd think that a modelling agency would court publicity, not seem to... well, not avoid it, but not make too much effort to leave an electronic footprint in the 21st century.

Butch was a common factor, though. Sam thought he might start to look for his home address.

Right after he checked the footage from the laptop camera that he'd so casually activated before he went to get breakfast; he wanted to get some good screen caps of his big brother for blackmail purposes.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Inexplicably, Dean was starting to wish he had a robe or something on. Especially as the beachwear got... skimpier.

_This is how a Ken doll must feel,_ he thought, as Linda gave him directions, tweaked at what he was wearing, pinned here, taped there, and posed him like a Ken doll, _A big Ken doll, a big orange and, with the large fan running, kind of uncomfortably perky Ken doll..._

"Butch was right," enthused Lois, "The camera does love you."

"He's just wonderful," agreed Linda. "That bone structure, those eyes."

"Dat ass," Lois winked at him. "Did you know that Australians call those 'budgie smugglers'?"

"What's a budgie?" asked Linda.

"It's a type of parakeet," Lois answered. "We had one when I was a kid – they can talk. My brother taught it to curse."

Dean made a mental note to ask Ronnie why anybody would want to shove a parakeet down a pair of swim briefs. And tried not to think about the idea of having a beak and a pair of claws down the front.

"He just oozes aspirational appeal!" declared Linda.

"Is that good?" Dean asked, fighting the urge to tweak at the elastic of the swimmers he was wearing, which Linda had assured him was supposed to be like that.

"It's what any company looks for in a model," she replied.

"Okay, done for that," Lois announced.

"There's just one more," Linda told them, "This is the new hot ticket item for the range – it's a wonderful break for you to be doing this as your first job, Dean!"

"Yeah," Dean smiled wanly, suppressing a shiver, "It makes me feel, uh... perky."

Linda handed him the scrap of fabric. "So, let's see how it looks," she said, "We gotta make sure your tan has enough coverage.

Dean ducked behind the screen, and examined the garment he'd been given.

On the one hand, he was glad that he didn't have to ask what it was.

On the other hand, he only knew what it was because it looked remarkably like a lycra version of the disposable thong he'd worn the previous day.

* * *

We really do call those Speedos type togs 'budgie smugglers'. (And 'togs' is a Victorian – Australian state, not late 1800s – word for swimming costume.) Presumably this derives from the astonishing frequency with which people attempt to smuggle native birds out of the country by stuffing them down their pants. I kid you not. Apparently a sulphur-crested cockatoo can command prices of tens of thousands of US dollars. I still don't think it would be worth the risk of shoving something with a beak like a pair of sharpened pliers down your pants.

Australia's Prime Minister, one Mr Tony Abbot, is oft photographed wearing budgie smugglers, or his bike shorts. Which makes us kind of special, I suppose, because even shirtless Vladdie Putin keeps his long pants on in public. Does any other world leader regularly get photographed in lycra?

Whene'er Tony in Speedos goes,  
That stretchy fabric doth expose  
The Tony it dost juxtapose.

Yeah, we do stuff differently Down Here.

Send reviews for Mavgang the plot bunny, because Reviews are the Next Season's Swimwear On The Winchester Of Your Choice In The Studio Of Life!

Or waffle fries!


	24. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

It was like those weird fashion shows that you saw on the TV sometimes, Dean mused, where models with vacant stares paraded up and down wearing things that no normal person would ever wear outside of a bad dream.

After making it through the swimwear, the underwear was something of a relief. Well, to start with. The shorts had certainly started off giving a lot more coverage than the, er, hot-ticket swimwear item. He couldn't imagine anybody actually wearing..._ that_ to a pool, or a beach. Not unless you were some sort of exhibitionist, with a fetish for trying to get an all-over suntan...

"Don't fiddle," Linda slapped lightly at his hand as he unconsciously reached to the, well, there was no polite way to put it, the underwear apparently constructed from half a handkerchief and some dental floss.

"Sorry," he apologised, stifling a small yelp as she twanged the scrap of fabric into place. He couldn't imagine anybody wearing _this _either, unless maybe you were some bodybuilder type whose assets had been shrivelled away by steroid abuse to the point where you could probably move without having to worry about them kind of, er, escaping custody, so to speak. "Do guys really wear this?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Well, they buy it," Linda shrugged, "Whether they wear them isn't something the company cares about."

As she gave him further directions as to where to stand, where to look, what to do, Dean glanced at Lois. She was absorbed with the camera, eyeing him critically, throwing out directions as she studied the screen.

"Now, let's see your bedroom eyes, Dean," she instructed, "Smoulder for me."

The Killer Smile found its way onto his face, but for the first time ever, it didn't go below his chin, let alone below his belt. The Living Sex God usually enjoyed being ogled by, and oglig, women, but this wasn't ogling as such. _It's ogling, Jim, but not as we know it._ He suppressed another shiver, and reflected sadly that the only part of him that felt at all perky was his chest.

He decided that he didn't like being objectified.

And worst of all, he'd never be able to ogle at a Victoria's Secret underwear parade with the same carefree lust again.

"You're really good at this," Linda commented, spreading a black faux fur rug over a banana lounge whilst Lois fiddled with the lighting and backing screen. "You have a talent, Dean!"

_Man up, _he told himself, pouting on command,_ This is part of a job, and it's paying. You've been through worse. For fuck's sake, this is just standing around in front of a camera. Nothing's trying to kill you. Grow a pair. _

The stylist handed him the next garment.

It was made from an even smaller handkerchief.

It was a leopard skin print.

_Yep, grow a pair, dude. Just don't let them fall out._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam hit a dead end – there was no Butch Schwartz in any directory, local or national, and he hadn't had much luck in poking around in any other publicly available records. It would take some time, and illicit electronic nosiness.

He repressed an urge to put a fist through the screen in frustration, and sat back. That wasn't like him. Sure, it was aggravating when the research for a Hunt ground to a halt, and he ran into brick walls, but he'd never hurt his laptop, his helpless and endlessly helpful laptop, which never let him down, no matter how much Dean tried to clog it up with porn and viruses. it would be like kicking a kitten.

Instead, he turned to the footage of Dean that he'd surreptitiously gathered that morning, and started to get some really good screen caps. He decided to send some to Bobby, with an update on their job.

After a moment of thought, he CC-ed the message to Ronnie. After all, he reasoned, he felt an obligation to keep... his pack informed about what he was doing. Yes, that would be his story, and he would stick to it.

Grinning, he hit 'send'.

Opening another bag of snacks, he started surfing around, looking for the Oompa-Loompa song, to set as the ring tone on his brother's phone. Or maybe he could just write one of his own.

_Oompa loompa doopa dee do,  
__I've got another puzzle for you,  
__Oompa loompa doopa dee dee,  
__My brother Dean never listens to me._

_What do you get from DHA sprays?  
__You look like a carrot for several days.  
__People will look, and a pumpkin they'll see,  
__Or maybe a Jersey Shore wannabe._

_What a Situation..._

_Oompa loompa doopa dee ate,  
__Now, every day, ex-fo-li-ate,  
__Or you'll keep that orangey hue,  
__Like the Oompa-Loompas doopa dee do._

He tucked the lyrics file away where Dean wouldn't find it, and turned to give Jimi a handful of snacks. He felt cheerful, he felt happy, that bit of writing had amused him enormously.

Jimi wagged his tail, and woofed happily. Perhaps he was picking up on Sam's upbeat mood.

"Or maybe you just wanna go for another w-word," huh?" smiled Sam, thinking that he might enjoy that to. "Let's blow off this electronic box, and go out, huh?"

He pushed back his chair, stretched his arms, and stood up...

But he didn't stop when he got to six-four.

There was a sound of tearing fabric, then his claws were touching the ceiling.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean was strangely thankful to be fully clothed again. Linda gushed effusively about how great he'd been, and set about packing up the jumble of garments strewn about.

"She's right," Lois told him, "You were great. For a first timer, you did really well." She gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry if I came across as bossy. It's just that when I'm working, I kinda get in the zone, and it's all about getting the shot as good as it can be." The smile turned a little teasing. "Especially when the subject matter I have to work with is so... promising."

The Living Sex God was irrepressible; the Killer Smile asserted itself once more. "Well, if it was absolutely necessary to parade around in something that barely qualifies as a handkerchief, let alone a garment, I'm glad I could do it in front of an appreciative audience," he replied. Then a huge yawn crept up on him before he could stifle it. "Oh, sorry."

"You wouldn't think it'd be so tiring, would you?" she sympathised. "Don't worry, you'll get accustomed to it. You'll never be a 'virgin' again." She turned back to the camera. "Get a good night's sleep tonight," she suggested.

"Oh?" he cocked an eyebrow, "Do you have something planned for tomorrow?"

"I might have," she purred, "Would you like to come over to my place, and I can show you some of the proofs?"

"I think I'd like that," he replied.

"I thought you might." She cocked her head. "You know, with a tan, it's important to exfoliate properly, if you want to get rid of it, or to keep your skin ready to reapply it. :"And," she dropped her voice, "You have to use an appropriate moisturiser. And you have to make sure you get it... everywhere."

"Well, you bein' a professional," Dean grinned, "I would have to take your advice on that, and I'd be very grateful for any... assistance you could offer."

"I look forward to lending you the benefit of my experience." Lois's smile wasn't just come-hither, it was get-your-ass-over-here. "Why don't you go over there," she nodded towards Linda, "And see if you can grab that leopard skin thong?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

By the time he got back to the room, Dean knew he was in that state of annoying cheerfulness that would drive his brother nuts. That only made him feel more cheerful. Lois had been right, though, he felt tired. So, he could have a long shower – a long, happy shower – and spend some time watching Dr Sexy, or maybe just singing along to some of his favourite tunes for the express purpose of watching Sam bitchface at him.

"I'm back!" he announced, "And I'm starving, so I'll go and..."

Jimi gave him a whuff of greeting.

So did Sam.

"Ah," Dean eyed his brother. It was amazing, really, how a huge, shaggy monster could manage to look utterly sheepish. It was clearly something he'd somehow inherited from Andrew. "So, uh, I'm gonna take a guess that you've tried changing back without much luck?"

With a small whine, Sam nodded.

"How about beer?" Dean asked. "Did you try beer?"

Follicula the Great Beast extended a long arm to point at a pile of cans in the trash. They all had holes in them from being shotgunned.

Dean sat down on his own bed. "Well," he mused, "Looks like I'm goin' out to get dinner." He frowned thoughtfully. "You don't just want some of Jimi's kibble?"

The patented Sam Winchester Bitchface™ on the lupine face was unmistakeable.

"Okay, okay," Dean grinned, "Something with lots of dead animal in it, right?"

Sam whuffed happily.

"Well, you keep tryin' to make yourself presentable," Dean instructed, "And I'll got get food. And more beer. Maybe you just need more beer."

Sam cocked his head, and managed to do a remarkably good impression of The German Shepherd Head Tilt Of Enquiry.

"Nah, you don't wanna hear about my day," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "What you do wanna hear about it my impending date with Lois. I'm tellin' ya, bro, she was practically throwing herself at me..."

The werewolf whined, let itself fall sideways on the bed, and pulled the pillow over its head.

"Well, you just guard the place, Fluffy, while I go get chow," Dean said.

Fine motor control of his paws in wolf form was something that Sam hadn't had time to acquire, but one long shaggy arm extended towards him, and his baby brother managed a recognisable flip-off.

Dean whipped out his cell, and took a picture. Ronnie would be proud, he thought.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"I think he's really tried," Dean spoke into his cell, "We've poured enough beer into him to floor a frat boy, but he's stuck."

"I suppose you don't have to worry too much," Ronnie's voice emerged from the speaker, "Provided he stays out of sight. He's clearly got control of himself, so he's no danger to himself or anybody else." She let out a sequence of gruffing sounds, and Sam replied in kind. "Yeah, he says he's tried, but it's just too hard. It's a practice thing – it's hardest to switch back to human at the full moon."

"You scared him human," Dean recalled with a smile.

"That's because I'm his... because I'm a nasty, vicious old bitch who's scared Alpha males before," Ronnie explained. "I do scary-angry well." There was a thoughtful pause. "I suppose you could try singing at him, the vocalisations you make when you claim to be 'singing' are pretty damned terrifying."

"Cow," Dean humphed. "What about pictures of clowns?" Sam visibly winced. "Whaddya think, Sam, I get some pictures of clowns for you to look at? Get you scared straight?"

Sam managed his recognisable flip-off again.

"That reminds me," Dean mused, "There's a pic I really gotta send to you..."

"How's the job going?" Ronnie pressed. "You better have your carcasses back here two nights from now."

"Just haven't pulled it together," Dean told her, "But I got a hot lead on a hot date tomorrow night."

Ronnie sighed. "How many times has Sam told you that when you're researching a Hunt, you're supposed to use your Upstairs Brain?"

"I'm using my Hunter's wiles," Dean grinned audibly. "And it'll give me an opportunity to suss out whether Lois is involved. Sam found a picture of Butch with the last version of this agency, so he's a common factor."

Sam let out a string of Canine.

"He thinks it's weird how there's otherwise a lack of photos of Butch," Ronnie translated, "And he couldn't find his home address either. He'll do some more digging tomorrow."

"Otherwise, it might be the old-fashioned follow-him-home," admitted Dean. "Which I hope will not mean I have to cancel my hot date."

"I just don't wanna know," Ronnie snapped, "I really don't." Sam whined in agreement. "Although if you're looking for a way to frighten your baby brother back to two legs, one of your Chicks I Have Banged stories might do it. Crap knows, I find them utterly terrifying."

"That's a great idea!" chirped Dean. "What about it, Sam?"

Sam fixed Dean with Auxiliary Werewolf Bitchface™ #1 (Grrrr Grrrrrrmph Grrrrrrr Rumph Ruffff Grrrrrruff, Dean), and held up one enormous paw. Slowly and deliberately, he let the wicked claws extend from his fingertips. "Guess that's a no, then. Your loss, dude."

"As to a more permanent solution," Ronnie cut in, "We've brewed up the countercurse. It wasn't all that difficult – Andrew could read the incantation easily enough. All you gotta do is get Sam back here to drink it."

There was something in her tone he couldn't identify. "Thanks, Ronnie," Dean replied. "Hey, uh, how did you get hold of a tooth, a claw and a whisker from his, uh, sire?"

"We all lose teeth from time to time," she told him, "I try to collect them for Bobby, because there's serious mojo in werewolf teeth. Especially from an Alpha male. The claw, I just clipped an end off one of his when I was trimming Joni's. The whisker, he says that was the worst. Honestly, you'd have thought I was pulling out one of his kidneys, not just a specialised hair that will grow back, what a sook, the yelp must've been audible for a radius of ten miles..."

A deep rumbling, like a resentful volcano, filtered through the speaker, suggesting that Andrew was also stuck in wolf form at the full moon, and did not appreciate being called a sook.

"Well, you are," Ronnie insisted. "Anyway, we're locked and loaded at this end."

"Tell Andrew I said thanks, and I appreciate him bein' willing to take one for the team," Dean said with the sincerity of a man who is only too familiar with having hairs plucked out of sensitive places. "We both do."

"You can tell him yourself in a couple of days," Ronnie stated firmly. "Good luck, fellas." With a last whuffing growl to Sam, she rang off.

"Well, looks like we're havin' a quiet night in," Dean observed. "You aint leavin' until you're human again, and I sure aint leavin' you here by yourself..."

Sam looked sheepish again, made his way to the door, and barked sharply.

Dean gave him a look. "No," he reiterated, "We cannot risk you bein' seen, Sam."

Sam looked longingly at the door, and barked again.

"Come on, you're meant to be the sensible one here!" Dean complained, "The job will just have to wait until you're back to you!"

Whining, Sam stared meaningfully at the pile of beer cans, and crossed his legs.

"Oh, God," groaned Dean, "Are you sure you can't hold it?"

Sam whined even more urgently.

Dean sighed. It was fully dark outside. He opened the door, looked around carefully, and turned back to his brother. "Okay, the coast is clear," he said. "Stick to the shadows, and be quick. The last thing I need is somebody seein' you, and callin' the local animal control ranger. Or, worse, knockin' on the door wanting to know where they can get a puppy."

* * *

Oompa loompa lampito do,  
I've got a writing offer for you,  
Oompa loompa lampito dee  
Send me reviews and maybe we'll see

Dean in the thong with a leopard skin spots,  
Seeking a game of Joining The Dots,  
Sam do a Bitchface and a big huff  
As he walks to his bed in the buff

Denizens, they are depraved,

Ommpa loompa lampito dore,  
Feeding the bunny will make it say more,  
Please send me a lovely review  
Like the oompa loompa Denizens do.


	25. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

The morning light was tentatively sneaking under the closed curtains of the Winchesters' room when Dean stirred, yawned, and woke.

"Mornin', bitch," he said, scratching behind one ear, "Shit, you better not have brought fleas in here, or I'll AAAAAAARGH!"

Sam, who had been asleep on the floor on the blanket next to Jimi, opened his eyes, yawned and sat up. "What? What?" he demanded, climbing to his feet.

"Clothes, Sam!" Dean yelped, clamping his eyes shut, "Clothes!"

"What about 'em?" asked Sam, stretching luxuriantly.

"Put some on!" demanded his big brother, "Jesus Christ, it's bad enough you slept with the dog, but no man wants to wake up to seein' his little brother naked!"

"Well, it's not exactly unexpected," Sam shrugged, unconcerned, "It became pretty clear that there was no way I could fit on the bed, so sharing the blanket with Jimi was the most sensible arrangement..."

"You could've put on some sweats," grumbled Dean, peeking from between his fingers, then letting out another bark of outrage.

"No I couldn't," Sam replied reasonably, "Nothing I have would fit me in wolf form."

"Well you can put on some clothes now!" Dean insisted.

Sam sniffed at himself. "I think I'll shower first," he decided, "I don't remember rolling in anything when I went out to take a leak, but..."

"Just leave me plenty of hot water, bitch," ordered Dean, "I gotta exfoliate if I'm gonna ditch the guido thing ASAP."

He didn't open his eyes again until he heard the bathroom door shut.

"And you chased rabbits in your sleep!" he yelled.

Sam's head appeared around the door. "Did I catch any?" he asked brightly.

A pair of his shorts hit him in the face.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean spent a number of hours of quality time with his Baby at a wash bay, while Sam took Jimi – and himself, he cheerfully admitted – out for a walk, then spent some more time online trying to track down information about Butch.

"I mean, doesn't it seem a bit strange to you?" he asked Dean over a box of wings, "This guy, who runs a modelling agency, is strangely undocumented. In this day and age, somebody like that should be cultivating an online profile. His picture isn't even on the Real People website. I've only found it incidentally a couple of times in local media. How can you run a modelling agency and be so media shy?"

"He doesn't want his picture taken?" Dean suggested. "So, if not, why not? Why does he not want his picture taken?"

"He doesn't want his appearance recorded," mused Sam. "He does show up on film, or on electronics, but he doesn't want to. There's something about his appearance he doesn't want people to see. Or notice."

"Shapeshifter?" suggested Dean. "If he changes what he looks like, he doesn't want that documented where anybody could track him down, every time the business moves."

"That would explain the name changes," Sam nodded, "New name, and if necessary, new face. But why the disappearing models? And why more than one? And why mostly women?"

"And why would you shapeshift to a body that looks so, well, like that?" Dean added. "When you could pick something hot? In his business, you could grab a male model."

"Something has," Sam pointed out, "But you're right. Then again, maybe it's like boosting a car; you steal a Ferrari, you're asking for unwanted attention, but if you take a Honda Civic, nobody will look twice."

"The place has a couple of security cameras," Dean pointed out, "Although they cover the exits. It's not like a modelling agency has anything really worth stealing. Is there any way you could get a look at the footage, look for retinal flare?"

"I'll give it a shot," Sam agreed, pulling his laptop, "But the angles aren't real good for that. I'm still looking for his out-of-hours address. Assuming he has one. I sure as hell don't like the idea of you tailing him home to find out, by yourself."

"But Mooooom, all the other Hunters go out after dark by themselves!" whined Dean. Sam shot him a _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Hey, I think I can handle one little recon by myself if necessary, Fido," he grinned annoyingly.

"I just... I don't like that place," Sam complained. "There's something... wrong about it."

"O' course you don't like it," Dean kept grinning. "You're a Hunter. And an awesome laptop dancer. So, you can run that internet red-hot, until that time of the month kicks in, and by then, I will be doing some more research up close and personal with Lois... don't look at me like that, I'll use the opportunity to suss out what she knows about Butch, how long she's known him, she might know where he lives."

"Is that a good idea?" asked Sam. "When I'll be too, uh, furry to be your back-up?"

"You kinky little devil," leered Dean.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Sam snapped.

"I know," Dean sighed, "And you worry too much. This is just a recon mission, which happens to be piggybacking onto an evening of the Living Sex God and an enthusiastic worshipper enjoying some beautiful, natural acts. Then, tomorrow, we take a trip back to Casa Jaeger for you to swill down some countercurse, we pool our intel, then we head back here to... what?" Dean came to a halt at the look on his brother's face. "Sammy? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sam replied immediately, "Nothing, it's just..." he ran out of words.

"What?" pressed Dean.

Sam looked at his big brother, his mind racing. How was he supposed to explain it?

Dean was his family, the most important person in his life, that was a constant, an unchangeable fact. But the feeling of belonging he'd experienced in the previous four weeks was unlike anything he'd known before. He'd never known his mother, and his relationship with his father had been... well, yeah. He'd had a sense of belonging, of having a pack, a... family.

_His pack-sire instructing him, rassling with him, and holding and reassuring him while agonising silver poison ran through his body._

_His pack-dam, fussing over him as though he was her own pup._

_The unspoken but unmistakeable affection in everything they did, they way they moved, the way they looked at him, the way they smelled..._

_Us. Our pack._

"Sammy?" Dean's voice sounded worried, uncertain.

"I'm just... worried about you," Sam managed, sounding somewhat lame even to himself. "Will you at least text me where you are before moonrise?"

If Dean wanted to press the matter, he didn't say anything. "Sure," he grinned, "I can do that. So long as I don't have to worry about you sneakin' up and tryin' to peek in the windows. Hey, belay that, if you wanna sneak up and peek through the windows, you might learn something."

"Jerk."

Later that day, Sam managed to link the last disappearance to a modelling job brokered through Real People, but then drew a blank. "Okay, I give up," he sighed, biting into another doughnut then leaning back and stretching, "I think from tomorrow, we gotta suit up, and start askin' questions."

"Families?" asked Dean.

"A couple," Sam replied, "But we might have to travel for that – whatever has been grabbing them has tried to pick out people with minimal ties here." He gave a worried glance at Dean. "Just like your cover story."

"Well, once we get your little excess hair problem solved, we can go present ourselves as two of the Bureau's finest," decided Dean, reaching for his cell as it chirped. "Lois!" he trilled brightly, "Great to hear from you..."

After a couple of minutes he rang off. "That's my cue," leered the Living Sex God, picking up his jacket, "I'm meeting her at a bar not far from here, so I'll leave my Baby with you, so you can go stock up on food before the hormones hit."

"Will you at least take silver? If there could be a shapeshifter involved?" Sam pleaded. Dean gave him a reassuring smirk, and picked a silvered blade out of their arsenal, grinning as he watch the wince on his baby brother's face. "It stinks," Sam complained.

"Well, be a good little werewolf, and I won't have to stick it in you," announced Dean cheerfully. Sam flipped him off. "Don't wait up, you two. Oh, but Sam, at least pull a blanket over yourself this time, huh?"

"Go enjoy yourself, Living Sex Jerk."

"Always." With a last cocky salute, Dean headed out.

Sam turned back to his laptop, frowned, and tried another search. Nothing. With a huff, he shut it down, and glared at the door. The twitchy sense of anticipation was getting stronger. Sunset and moonrise couldn't be far off.

"Maybe we should go stock up for the night, huh?" he suggested to Jimi, "Lay in supplies? More wings, maybe?"

At the sound of the w-word, Jimi sat up and whuffed happily, using the variant of the Canine expression for _prey_ that Sam had come to recognise as meaning the dog's favourite food treat.

"Yeah, thought you'd agree," he grinned. "Why don't you and me take a drive?" He dropped into Canine himself. _We will hunt. We will find food._

_We will find food! _ Jimi barked eagerly, tail wagging. _Our pack will gorge tonight?_

"You're just like Dean, you know," Sam reached down to pat the dog fondly, "Always thinking with your stomach." His own rumbled at the thought of delicious chunks of animal protein as he picked up the car keys. _Our pack will gorge tonight._

Their cruise around a couple of take-outs, a pizza parlour and a small Indian place that did very good food at low cost saw Sam and Jimi stock up on enough food to get half a dozen humans, or one Old North werewolf and one half-Hellhound Rottweiler through the night without starving to death. Or at least, without thinking that they were starving to death.

The evening light was fading when Sam realised that a short detour would take him past Real People. Consulting his watch, he thought that he might try a little recon of his own; breaking and entering for the purposes of rifling paperwork was something that both Winchesters were old hands at. He checked his watch, and decided that he might just have time to have a try at finding Butch's address the old fashioned way before he had to hole up and wait until he was feeling human again.

Parked across the street, he was able to satisfy himself that the place was deserted for the day. Opening a box of wings for Jimi and leaving him with strict instructions to snack on those and nothing else, he slid out of the car, and made his way to the rear entrance of Real People.

Security was easy enough to avoid if you knew how, and he had the lock popped quickly. Moving silently, he made his way to the admin desk.

It was the organised mess of somebody who has their own 'filing' system that works for them but looks like a rat's nest to anyone else, and he poked carefully through the jumbled piles of paper, trying all the while to ignore the feeling of something wrong in the place. He was about to give up and have a try at getting the security camera footage up on the computer when he spotted a sheaf of dog-eared utilities bills.

Only, they weren't bills. They were statements. Because the accounts were being automatically debited every month.

The address for the statements was not Real People, it was a residential address, and it was addressed to B. Schwartz.

It would make sense, he thought, if some fugly had a house as home base, paying the bills automatically would make sure that they were never late, and never prompted any service provider to come banging on the door, maybe seeing something they shouldn't. He took out his cell, and snapped a picture of one of the statements.

The feeling of anticipation rippled through him again, so he carefully let himself back out and headed for the car.

Jimi was pleased to see him, but cocked his head and growled as Sam slid back behind the wheel.

"Hey, what's wrong, fella?" Sam ruffled the dog's ears, but Jimi continued to growl a warning.

_Wrong-thing! Wrong-thing! You carry the scent of the wrong-thing!_

"You're telling me," muttered Sam, "There really is something creepy about that place..."

He turned to look at the dog.

"Have you smelled this scent before?" he asked. _You recognise the scent? You know of the... thing out of place?_

_Wrong-thing! _ Jimi barked urgently, using the expression Sam didn't recognise again.

"Well, we're onto something, at least," Sam sighed, pulling into the traffic, "It's not just me. If you can smell something wrong, then there's something wrong. Dean's right, you really do have a nose for evil shit." He sighed. "Crap, what a shame that Stanford didn't offer Freshman Canine..."

As he pulled the car back into the bay outside the Winchesters' room, he could've bitten himself for being an idiot.

He let himself and Jimi into the room, and dialled a fluent speaker.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Nice digs," Dean noted, getting out of the car and following Lois through the well-manicured garden and up the stairs onto the porch.

"I'm good at what I do," she smiled, taking out her key. "The whole bohemian artist live-in-squalor-because-only-my-work-matters? Screw that."

"Amen," he agreed, watching her very shapely figure as she led the way into the house.

Once inside she turned to him, smiled seductively, and said,

"So, did you get it...?"

He extracted a scrap of leopard skin print lycra from his pocket.

Lois let out a low, throaty chuckle that went straight to his Downstairs Brain.

"Why don't I fix us a drink," she purred, gesturing to another door, "While you go and check out the décor in the master bedroom. I think you'll find a couple of the prints particularly interesting. And I'll be right with you."

"Why don't I do that," he agreed, as the Killer Smile cranked up the wattage.

The word for the room was 'sumptuous'. The bed was huge, the decoration was tasteful, and there was a large, luxurious faux fur rug on the floor. The bathroom through a second door had a huge spa bath, and double shower.

Dean sighed happily, then took out his cell to text his brother.

When Lois returned a few minutes later, she found him bouncing experimentally on the bed.

"You started testing the mattress without me?" she pouted.

He put a wistful look on his face. "I'm sorry," he said, standing up and accepting his drink. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

"That's what I want to hear," she smiled, mollified, as she reached out to turn off the main light switch.

"You aint shy, are ya?" he teased, as she sashayed up to him in the semi-darkness.

"I'm a photographer," she told him, "I'm picky about the lighting. The overheads, they just wash everything out. In the bedroom, I prefer something a bit softer."

She drew him towards the head of the bed, and reached to a bedside lamp.

The speed with which she picked it up and hit him in the head was such that he didn't see it coming, and he was out before he hit the floor.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You're cutting it awfully fine," growled Ronnie, "You really should be staying out of sight."

"Yeah, but this is important," insisted Sam, "I went to have a look around at Real People. There's something about the place that makes my claws want to pop out."

"A scent of something?" she asked.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "I think so. I'm just not very good at listening to my nose while I'm human, I guess. I haven't had time to practise. But Jimi picked up on it, and I think he knows the scent, but I don't know what he means, I just don't have the experience, or the, uh, vocab."

He put his cell on speaker, and whuffed briefly to Jimi, holding it out for the dog . Jimi barked a greeting to Ronnie, who greeted him back, then asked,

_What did you scent, when your Second went casting for the Hunt?_

Sam heard Jimi bark urgently again. _Wrong-thing! Wrong-thing!_

"Oh, shit," breathed Ronnie.

"What is it?" Sam asked, "We were wondering if it was a shapeshifter..."

"It's not a shapeshifter," she cut him off, "Jimi smelled vampire!"

"Vampire?" Sam gawped at the phone. "But..."

The cell buzzed with a text.

It was from Dean, sending him an address as promised.

It was the same address as the ones on the statements he'd found in Butch's name.

"Oh, no," breathed Sam, "Oh, noooooooooooo..."

There was the sound of tearing fabric, and a crumpling noise as his claws crushed the phone.

* * *

I think Mavgang the plot bunny of undecided gender can see the finish line! Send reviews, because they are the Strange Little Plastic Cups Of Lurid Drink Distributed As The Plot Bunny Runs The Marathon Of The Story!


	26. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Staring down at the crushed remains of his phone tinkling away from his massive clawed paw, Sam let out small noise of horrified despair.

Dean was walking straight into a vampire – or vampires – and he didn't know it. A sliver knife would be useless.

Telling himself sternly to calm down, because he wasn't any use to anybody panicking, Sam carefully folded his long legs underneath him, settling into kneeling, and made himself relax. His breathing slowed, his heart rate came down, and he let his mind stop whirling. Control. That was what was needed. Enough control to flick the switch, and be human again. Calm, intelligent control.

He closed his eyes, and stretched out his arms, visualising them resuming their human shape.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. Calm, be calm, just breathe, and find the switch...

His arms, in fact all of him, remained stubbornly werewolf-shaped.

He let out a huff of irritation as Jimi whined, picking up on his worry.

_Alpha is in danger, _he told the dog,_ He is being stalked by the... wrong-things._

_Threat! _Jimi growled, his eyes whirling ember-red,_ Threat to our pack!_

Glaring at his paws, Sam could've put one through a wall in frustration. I can hardly drive like this, he snapped to himself, I sure as hell can't use the laptop, and even if I hadn't killed my cell, I can't call directory assistance – thank you for waiting, please howl the address you are looking for, these frigging claws...

He remembered how, when he couldn't get the shapeshift under his control, Ronnie had snarled, and scared him back to human.

So he thought about clowns.

He thought about their pallid white faces, and their painted-on smiles, and their garish wigs, and their clumsy baggy costumes, and their blood-red noses and their evil too-loud laughter and their dead, dead eyes...

He thought about Pennywise from _It._ He thought about the clown doll from _Poltergeist._ He thought about Captain Spalding from _House of 1000 Corpses._ He thought about the Violator from _Spawn. _ He thought about Michael Jackson. He thought about every hideous, scary clown he'd ever seen.

It didn't work.

_Alpha is in danger! _ Jimi yapped, and the implication was clear: so what are we going to do about it?

His brother was walking into trouble. And he needed Sam to have his back. End of story. A little thing like a case of lycanthropic hypertrichosis wasn't going to stop one Winchester brother from watching out for the other.

Jimi stood by the door, looking at him expectantly. Sam looked down at his huge paws again, massive appendages, they would be useless for trying to wield a weapon, that took years of practice, and time was the one thing he didn't have.

So, weaponry, no.

Thoughtfully, he waggled his uncooperative thumbs.

Intelligent control.

With a growl of determination, Sam put one paw on the door handle.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean was no stranger to waking up with a pair of magnificent assets before his eyes, but it was usually a lot more pleasant when there was an actual bed involved, and his head wasn't aching as though it had been split open.

"I think he's waking up," quavered a female voice.

"Nrrrrrrng," quoth Dean, putting a hand to his head to make sure it was still attached to his neck. "Wathafuck?" He blinked hard to clear his vision, and looked up into a worried, but still very attractive, female face.

Okay, not dead then, he thought. Because he'd been to Hell, and there were no attractive women _per se_ there, and he'd been to Heaven, and he was pretty sure that headaches weren't part of the gig there, and in Purgatory the pretty ones had all ended up having too many tentacles for his personal preference. Which just left still being alive...

With some protesting from his outraged neurons, recollection came flooding back.

Oh, shit.

Levering himself up on one elbow, Dean gazed at the worried face peering at him. Faces plural, he realised. A gaggle of people were standing around looking at him. As his vision cleared, he realised he recognised them.

They were the young would-be models who'd disappeared after registering with Real People.

"Are you all right?" asked she of the attractive assets who'd been leaning over him. "When they brought you down here, we thought you were dead..." One of the other girls started to cry.

"No, I aint dead," Dean smiled ruefully, rubbing at his head, and checking for his phone. It was gone, but the silvered knife down his boot was still there. "I just feel like it. Who's 'they'?"

"Butch and Lois," the young woman – Sharmaine, her name popped into her head, she was Sharmaine – replied. "They've been keeping us upstairs, but they brought us down here earlier this evening."

"Okay, so they're plannin' something for tonight," he mused, wincing. He did a double-take, then realised that the 'girl' who was crying was actually a young man. "C'mon, dude, not in front of the ladies," he muttered. He looked around. They were in a basement room of some sort, bare floor and walls, with nothing but a small window set high above the floor. "What can you tell me about Butch and Lois?"

"They're going to kill us," quavered another young woman, Andrea, he recalled, "Lois said they needed somewhere where the screaming wouldn't be heard. 'There's always screaming', was what she said."

"So, something they've done before," grunted Dean, looking around. The room was bare, a deep basement room – he didn't say it out loud, but it would be readily hosed down after all manner of butchery. "Did they actually say they're goin' to kill you?" They looked at each other. "What?"

"They didn't exactly say," another girl told him, "But once or twice, I heard Butch mention 'turning'. He said I'd turn beautifully."

"He said the same thing to me," said yet another of the Real People disappearees, "I didn't know what he meant. Do you know what he meant?"

"Nope," Dean replied, although he was beginning to form a suspicion, "But I'm thinking that we shouldn't hang around to find out." He stood by the wall, squinting up at the window.

"We can't get up there," one of the girls said, "It's too far up, and there's no way to climb. The wall's too smooth."

Dean gave her a cocky smile. "Well, your ladder has arrived," he told her, eyeing the willowy figures of the models. "None of you look like you weigh much – now, did any of you ever do any cheerleading at school?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

On the third try, Sam's paw grasped the doorknob firmly enough to turn it. The door swung open.

Peering into the darkness, he checked for any witnesses, then chastised himself. _Use your nose, you moron, stop thinking like a human, and let the wolf do its thang..._

As if running on auto-pilot, the wolf body took over: his enormous bulk somehow slid silently and invisibly out of the room, and oozed into the night, to blend with the shadows. His nose told him that there were people about, but none of them had noticed him.

So, he was out. Now, all he had to do was find his brother. With no idea where that address actually was...

He turned to Jimi, and gruffed softly.

_Find your Alpha. Find Dean. Use stealth._

_Alpha, _echoed Jimi, raising his snout to the night, casting for a familiar scent, _I track, Alpha._

Set onto a trail, a Hellhound will follow a scent, however faint, however faded, across time and space, across dimensions – once set to track, it will always find its quarry.

For Jimi, finding Dean would be like setting a greedy child looking for Easter eggs in a chocolate shop in March.

His eyes glowing like banked embers, Jimi let out another whuff. Sticking to the shadows, he slunk into the night, with Sam following.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Officer Brian Peddle was on his last shift. It was a source of some amusement to his colleagues that the man who had vigorously fought to avoid being kicked upstairs or put behind a desk would finally be forced by a knee injury, sustained during running down and arresting a would-be burlgar less than half his age, to spend his last shift before retirement on dispatch. To make it up to him, they said, they had bought him an enormous quantity of doughnuts as an extra retirement present. The boxes were everywhere, on every available flat surface, and he had no doubt that before the shift finished, pictures of a grinning cop surrounded by boxes of doughnuts would be circulating on the internet.

He stashed away some of the chocolate iced ones that his wife liked so much to take home for her, then thought, what the hell, and opened a box. He'd always been a guy who looked after his own health, but damn it, if a cop couldn't eat doughnuts on his last shift, then he didn't want to live on this planet any more. He pulled out his cell and took a picture of himself with two doughnuts jammed into his mouth at once, then sent it to one of his younger colleagues who was on patrol; it would amuse the youngsters enormously, and no doubt it would also end up on the damned internet, but Brian was a man who could take a joke, because a guy who couldn't laugh at himself would never have survived forty years on the beat.

He finished those, and was contemplating a third – fuck, they must mix crack in with the powdered sugar, he decided, the damned things were addictive – when the switchboard flashed. He immediately answered the call, took the details, suggested that the lady stay indoors, and assured her that somebody would look into it.

He relayed the message to the same colleague he'd sent the selfie to: a woman had spotted a Rottweiler and a giant wolf trotting along her street.

"A giant wolf?" he could hear the incredulity in the young guy's voice, "What the hell was she smoking?"

"I dunno," chortled Brian, "Maybe she's eatin' crack-powdered doughnuts, just like me, mmmmmmm..."

"We'll check it out," his colleague sighed. "Save some for us."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"It's stuck," complained Tania, the slim brunette standing on his upstretched hands as she wiggled at the catch on the tiny window, "It's, like, rusty, and gunked up."

"Keep trying," Dean instructed, trying to stop his head from spinning and his knees from shaking.

"I need something to hit it with," she said.

Dean toed off a boot. "Toss that up to her," he instructed the young man. "Seriously, right now, dude."

Still sniffling, the young guy did as was told.

Tania juggled the boot, but caught it on the second try, banging at the window catch. "It's moving!" she said, hitting it again, "I think it's moving!"

After several more whacks, the corroded metal gave way.

"Great," Dean encouraged, "Now, can you see hinges on this side?"

"Uh," she peered at the flaking frame, "No, I don't think so."

"Okay, so the hinges are outside. Which means, it swings outward," he told her, "Probably from the top. So, give the base of the window frame a whack, and see if you can get it open."

"What if the glass breaks?" one of the other girls worried.

"That don't matter," Dean grimaced, "What's important is that we get that frame open. You're all pretty slim, I think with a boost, I can get you up there, and out."

Sharmaine looked up, and crossed the room to the depressingly solid door. "I think I heard something," she said tentatively.

"All the more reason to get you out and away," Dean said firmly, "Come on Tania, show that window no mercy! Pretend it stole your favourite mascara!"

She gave the window a vicious whack. With a creak, it cracked open.

"It's opening!" she said.

"Good work!" Dean said, feeling sweat start to run down his back, "Now, push it open as far as it can go!"

"Got it!" Tania declared, dropping his boot, then jumping off his hands and landing lightly on the floor. "Huh," she sniffed, "And Coach said that I wasn't flyer material."

"Okay," announced Dean, fighting off a wave of dizziness, "Now, what we're gonna do, I'm gonna boost one of you up there, and you're gonna get up, and wriggle through that window. Then, you help the next one out. Then, the two of you grab the next one, until you all get out, and then you get the hell away from here as fast as you can, as quietly as you can. Go to a house with lights on, or go where you see people, ask to call the police, and tell them who you are."

"What about you?" asked Sharmaine, one ear still pressed to the door.

"You let me worry about me," Dean said firmly, turning to the young guy, "Now, uh, what was your name?"

"Leonidas," he replied tremulously. "But people call me Lenny."

"Okay, so... Leonidas?" Dean gawped at the man before him. "Really?" The least leonine man he'd ever seen nodded. "Huh. And I thought I had a problem bein' named after my grandmother. So, Lenny, you'll go first, then you help grab the ladies, okay?" The other man nodded reluctantly.

Dean set himself against the wall again, glad to have something to lean on as his vision went momentarily fuzzy. "Okay, dude, foot here, now, on three, you reach, and grab, and get as much of you as you can through that window, okay? One, two, three..."

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They must think he came down with the last shower, Brian chortled to himself after the first couple of 'sightings' were reported. He'd been in the job forty years, and could smell a prank at a hundred yards. But he played along, the consummate straight man, his voice serious, relaying the reports to the cruiser crews with a perfectly straight face.

Report of a Rottweiler and a giant wolf climbing over a back fence.

"And are they still there, sir? No? Okay...how tall is the fence? So, the Rottweiler didn't go _over _the fence, it just went right_ through _the fence, then the wolf got one of your garden chairs to stand on, and followed over itself, do I have that correct, sir?... yes, sir, if it's left claw marks on your outdoor furniture and didn't leave a name and address, that most definitely constitutes trespass and damage to property..."

Report of a Rottweiler and a giant wolf loping through a park.

"And, uh, which street signs were they looking at, exactly, sir? Oh, so, it was only the wolf that was looking at the street signs. Uh, are you sure it was... oh, I see, so it stood up on its hind legs to look at the street signs... yes sir, I agree entirely, no dog of any sort should be out wandering around and looking at street signs without a collar on..."

Report of a Rottweiler and a giant wolf at a bus stop.

"And, uh, what were they doing at the bus stop, ma'am? Uh-huh... looking at the map. They were at the bus stop, looking at the map. What was that, ma'am? Oh, I see, it was just the giant wolf looking at the map. The Rottweiler wasn't looking at the map. Uh-huh... so it was looking up _towards_ the map, but it wasn't actually looking _at _the map... that's correct, ma'am, dogs are not allowed on public transport unless they are service dogs, so unless that Rottweiler is the wolf's seeing-eye guide dog, it's not allowed on a bus, and since the wolf was looking at the map, that suggests that its eyesight is perfectly all right, so if the Rottweiler gets onto a bus, you are completely within your rights to complain to the driver... no ma'am, I'm not joking, and a wolf that big is clearly an adult and must pay a full fare, unless it can produce a student ID or a disability card – did this giant wolf appear to have a disability at all, ma'am? Well, for example, did it walk with a cane? I have to ask, ma'am, fraudulently claiming a disability allowance of any sort is against the law, no matter what your species..."

Biting on his tongue to keep from laughing, he promptly relayed the latest 'sighting' to the cruiser nearest the bus stop. One more, he decided, and he'd have the last laugh - he'd tell them he was going to notify Animal Control. That would up the ante – Animal Control was under local Council jurisdiction, and they'd get very cranky if they were called out to a job that turned out to be a prank, and the LT would be MOST unhappy.

He sat back, smiling as he imagined the panicked calls from him colleagues, telling him it was a joke, and bit into another doughnut. He'd miss his job.

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"Are you okay?" asked Sharmaine tentatively.

"I'm fine," Dean replied automatically, wishing his vision would stop greying in and out, as he boosted Tania up to the window. Two of the others grabbed at her arms, and her slender figure allowed her to just manage to squeeze through the tiny window. "Come on, you're next..."

"I can hear someone out there!" Sharmaine squeaked, scuttling away from the door.

Dean grabbed her, and pulled her towards the window. "Time for you to go, NOW," he growled, grabbing for her foot, "Come on!"

"What about you?" she asked, as he threw her upwards, where arms grabbed for her.

"Just go!" he snapped, "Get away from here! I'll sort these assholes out! Shut the window and go!"

He had one more glimpse of her worried face before she did as she was told.

Dean sagged against the wall, head spinning. The civilians were safe.

With the satisfaction of a job well done, he turned and threw up. _Good, _he thought, _I hope that cleaning that up grosses them out._

There was a sound of voices outside the door, and the rattle of a key. He slid down the wall and seated himself, so that when the door pushed open, he was slouched comfortably, grinning cockily.

"So, ladies," began Butch's voice, "You're probably wondering..." the fat man's voice trailed to silence, as he gaped comically at the empty basement.

"What is it? " Lois's voice demanded, "Butch, what's..." she stared around. "What the fuck?"

"Sorry," Dean put as much smirk into his voice as he could, climbing casually to his feet. "Blood bank's closed, please go fuck yourselves."

The expression on Lois's face became ferally angry, and her fangs came down. "Hunter!" she spat. "Butch, he's a fucking Hunter!" She stared around the room again. "Where are they?"

"Hey," Dean grinned, "A magician never gives away his secrets."

Butch's face was a picture of disbelief. "This is... this is... this is very disappointing!" he shrieked. "They really had the look!"

"The what?" Dean couldn't help himself.

"The look!" Butch repeated, wringing his hands, "They had the look! You know, in the sixties, it was the hippy chicks, in the seventies it was the strong women, in the eighties, it was the Amazons, in the nineties, it was the athletic types, in the noughties, it was the gamin, but I needed to update!"

"Update?" Dean's mind boggled as his head spun. "Update what?"

"My coterie, you silly boy!" Butch rolled his eyes. "My bevy, my posse!"

"His little nest," Lois explains. "Beautiful people who bring in beautiful people for us to have fun with, then feed on. But they fly the coop eventually, want to strike out on their own, and we have to start again. The modelling agency is the perfect cover.""

"Every ten years or so," supplied Dean.

"Yeah, it would be about that," she agreed.

"This is the perfect way to do it! And now you've ruined everything!" Butch practically stamped a foot. "Now, we'll have to start again!"

"Oh, that aint gonna happen," Dean told him breezily. "You're heads are gonna roll, bloodsuckers."

"Not by your hand, pretty boy," sneered Lois, fangs bristling. "I'm gonna beat you to a pulp, and bleed you dry."

"Aha, I knew you were kinky," Dean leered back, "Even before you asked for the leopard skin print..." He reached down and drew the knife he'd been carrying.

Lois laughed out loud. "Are you serious?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah," he waggled his eyebrows at her, "Deadly."

"He must be concussed," humphed Butch, "It looked like you hit him pretty hard." His fangs showed. "Let's hope he hasn't leaked too much. He looks like he tastes just divine."

The female vampire cocked her head, and stared at Dean. "You do understand that you're going to die here?" she checked, confused by his nonchalance.

Dean laughed in her face. "I'm a Hunter, darlin'," he chuckled, "It's what we do." He gave her a predatory grin. "We go down swingin'."

"Yep, he's concussed," nodded Butch. "I hate it when we have to beat the crap out of them first. It's such a waste of good blood."

"In this case, I'm going to enjoy it. A lot," scowled Lois.

Dean watched as the vampires closed in, and found that he wasn't worried.

He was a Hunter. He was going to die doing the job. Since he was a child he'd known that for him, it was always going to end bloody.

And he was going to die before Sam. And he was fine with that.

_Does that make me selfish?_

He wouldn't be the one left behind, to grieve, to go on alone.

_One more way I've screwed up?_

Sam had his pack, now. They'd pick him up, and look after him. Sam would do just fine without him.

_Sam's alive. That's all that matters._

With a laughing snarl, he hefted the knife, and attacked.

* * *

Gooooooooooo bunny! Feed Mavgang reviews, because they're the Amphetamine-Laced Doughnuts In The Plot Bunny Office Of Life!


	27. Chapter 26

Is it Easter yet? Is it Easter yet? Is it now? Is it Easter now? How about now? Ah, frigate, I'm gunna eat some hot cross buns anyway.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

The problem, Sam reflected as he clambered over another fence, was that Jimi, being half-Hellhound, could walk straight through solid objects – like fences and buildings – whereas he, a mere werewolf, could not. Technically, he _could _probably literally go through them, but leaving a trail of destroyed fences and holed walls in his wake would attract unwanted attention. Besides, he felt bad enough about the garden furniture: he was pretty sure his claws had gouged that chair.

That problem was really only a problem because of another problem – dogs tended to think in direct lines, rather than street grids. Which, again, wasn't a problem if you were a Hellhound.

Actually, he thought there might be another other problem, too – his wolf-self was pretty good at keeping itself out of sight, but the very size of him made that difficult, and he thought he might've been spotted once or twice, but that large map of the area at that bus stop had been too much of a lucky find to let it slip.

Jimi paused, scenting the air, as Sam steered them towards the street they were looking for.

_Somewhere here,_ he gruffed as quietly as possible to the dog, _This is the street, he's somewhere here..._

Jimi growled, and trotted across the street, avoiding the pools of light from the street lamps as much as possible. He bounded up the stairs of a house with a well-tended garden. And then Sam smelled it.

The _wrong-things_. Vampires. And blood.

His brother's blood.

With a snarl, Jimi vanished through the door.

With a crash, Sam followed him.

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Butch's head jerked around at the noise. "What was that?" he yelped.

Lois stood up, and licked a stray bead of blood from her lower lip. "Nothing we can't handle," she said dismissively, "If those kids have called the cops, we just..."

The basement door burst in, and a snarling monster attacked.

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Flicking a switch. That's what it was like, a corner of his mind recalled, it was like flicking a switch. Or more accurately, a switched being flicked. When she'd used that analogy, Sam had thought that Ronnie was talking about the physical transformation.

It turned out, that was a minor part of it.

When he smelled his brother's blood, it was as though his head was suddenly filled with hot, red, hissing liquid metal, and his self-awareness was drowning in it.

_His brother's blood. His brother in danger._

His long strides took him past Jimi, his whole being screaming for the fight, for the kill, for bloody murder, for dead meat under his claws and blood in his mouth...

_Dean!_

That was his last coherent thought before Sam went under, then there was just rage, and the wolf broke free.

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Butch didn't even have time to stand completely upright – he froze, in disbelief and fear, not even managing to get out a scream before the monster roared, drew back one arm, and gutted him.

"Baaaaa..." was all he managed to burble, possibly in annoyance at the untidy fashion in which his guts spilled out over his clutching hands. The slavering werewolf took his head clean off with another strike.

Lois recovered more quickly, brandishing the silvered knife that Dean had stuck into her several times before he'd finally collapsed. Shrieking in anger, fangs bristling, she raised the knife.

The monstrous wolf roared again, grabbed for her arm, then pulled it right off as a child might casually disarticulate an unwanted doll.

She gawped at the dribbling stump as the monster tossed the limb aside, then stalked towards her, rumbling like an angry earthquake. It wasn't in a hurry; it was savouring the moment, drawing out the enjoyment of the kill.

The last thing she saw, and thought, was _So many teeth_

The wolf bit down, grabbing her body and worrying at it like a terrier with a rat, until her head came away. With another roar of joyous savagery, it lifted what was left, and, long arms bulging with effort, tore the corpse in two, then flung the pieces at the wall, where they smacked wetly into the cement and plopped to the floor.

The monster roared again, looking around for another opponent, someone, something, anything else to maul, when the scent came to him once again.

_His brother's blood._

_His brother._

Letting out a small yipping cry, the werewolf shook its head…

_Dean!_

The sight of his brother's bloodied and motionless body sprawled on the floor was more effective than a whole miniature carful of clowns. With a whimper, Sam shook off the wolf, and resumed his human form, dropping to his knees beside Dean, searching for a pulse, while Jimi nudged at his Alpha and whined.

"Don't you dare die on me, jerk," he half-sobbed, finding the too-fast, too-weak beat at his brother's neck. "Don't you dare, don't you dare, not like this, not like this…"

Dean's eyes cracked open, and through the mask of blood that was his face, found a small smile. "S'mmy."

"We'll fix this," Sam told him, tearing desperately at his brother's shirt, wadding the fabric against the wound at the base of his neck, knowing it was a lost cause even as he did so, "We'll get you to Emergency, they'll fix you right up, okay, just, just don't die on me…"

Dean coughed weakly. "Sam," he rasped, "Y'r naked."

Sam had to laugh. "I know, bro," he said, "I'll find a towel or something, I promise, I won't be seen naked, just, just stay awake for me, okay…"

Dean looked to Jimi, who licked anxiously at his face. "Look out f'r him f'r me," he instructed before his eyes slid shut again.

There wasn't time. Even if he had a phone with him, by the time an ambulance got there, it would be too late. The vampires had done a real number on Dean – he'd gone down fighting, but he'd been beaten, and nearly bled out, and there was only so much damage a human body could sustain before it lost the fight.

"Don't leave me," Sam whispered, "Don't die, Dean, please, don't leave me, not like this…"

He felt rather than heard the looming presence behind him as a pair of sweat pants dropped to the floor beside him.

The anguished whimper of a small pup burst from him. _Den-dam!_

The female werewolf crouched beside him, crooning reassuringly, and made an interrogative sound.

Sam didn't hesitate. "Do it."

With a nod, Ronnie bent down, and sank her teeth into Dean's arm.

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"She'll take care of the vampires," Andrew growled, heading back towards the Winchesters' motel room, "We'll take care of your brother."

Sam sat in the back seat of the truck with Dean cradled against him, a field dressing pressed to the worst of his brother's wounds. "How… how did you…"

"When Ronnie said you were up against vampires, we headed this way," Andrew told him. "She suspected it might go south."

Sam looked down at his brother's pale face. "They were eating him," he snarled, feeling the anger rising again, "Those fucking bloodsuckers, they beat the crap out of him, and they were eating him…" The very memory of that first sight of them crouched over Dean's inert form made his fangs descend.

Andrew let out an angry growl. "Stay human!" he snapped. "For your brother, you stay human! Don't let it out, you fucking stay human, Sam Winchester!"

Sam felt the red metal filling his mind again. "I… I don't know if… they were eating him…" The rage bubbled towards the surface. "It's happening," he yelped, feeling his body try to change, "I can't…"

Andrew rumbled angrily. "It's the wolf," he growled, "It's the full moon, plus it's telling you to shapeshift, to protect your brother – and it's wrong! You shift now, he's screwed. So don't you bitch to me about 'I can't', you damned well do it! You fight it, and you just fucking do it!" _I am Alpha! You will submit!_

The final snarling assertion got Sam's attention. "How are you…"

"Silver," Andrew hissed, "It works, but it fucking hurts, and if I see so much as your canines again, I will shove some up your whining ass until you get your shit together, do you understand me?"

Sam's eyes dropped back to his brother's face. "Hang on, bro," he whispered.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Back at the room, Andrew did his best to dress Dean's wounds, with Sam helping to clean him up.

"He's lost a lot of blood," the older man observed, "But we can't take him to Emergency – he'll do his first shapeshift tomorrow night, and there's no way we'll get him out if they get hold of him in this state."

Sam looked up. "How can you tell? Has it already…"

Andrew found time for a grin, and nodded to the bite wound. "Use your nose, kiddo. Plus, that kind of gives it away." He gestured to the silver ring on Dean's right hand. "Get that off him before it does real damage."

Sam carefully lifted his brother's arm, and was horrified to see the skin blistering as he watched. Without thinking, he grabbed for the ring, and yanked it off.

"OW!" he yelped, shaking his own hand, "OWWWW! Ah, shit, that burned!"

"You'll live," snorted Andrew, bending to examine the wound on Dean's head. "What the hell did they whack him with?"

Sam moved around the room, packing up their stuff in preparation to leave, when there was a subtle displacement of air, then Jimi was greeting his sister Joni as she walked right through the door. Sam moved to the door to let Ronnie duck inside, where she shifted back to human.

"If a forensics unit goes over that house, they'll find something," she announced, pulling on the clothes Andrew had dropped for her, "But me and Shovelpaws here have dealt with the carcasses." She eyed Sam thoughtfully. "Of course, I had to scrape up quite a lot. If I'd known, I'd have taken a mop."

Sam didn't look in the least bit repentant. "They had it coming," he shrugged, stuffing things into his duffel.

Andrew finished up, declaring Dean as fit to travel as he was going to get. Sam carefully manoeuvred his brother back into the truck, whilst Ronnie slung their gear into the Impala, let both dogs into the back seat, then opened the driver's door.

"This never happened," she told Sam. "I will bring your brother's Baby back with us, and we will never speak of this again."

Sam found a small smile. "What if he asks how it got there?"

"We did a spell to invoke the aid of the Magic Flatbed Rainbow Fairies," she said with a perfectly straight face. "They waved their magic wands, and brought her to our place on their magical trailer, which is made of magical moonbeams and is pulled by a team of magical unicorns…"

"No homo," interrupted Andrew, tossing a blanket to Sam.

As he tucked the blanket around his brother, Sam wondered what Dean would find more distressing, the idea that Ronnie had driven his Baby, or it had been transported by unicorn.

As the truck began to move, he looked down into Dean's face, and saw a small flush of colour returning, replacing the awful pallor that had resulted from blood loss. He let out a small sigh of relief; one way or the other, he would get a chance to listen to Dean rant. About Ronnie, or about unicorns, he didn't care.

_Dean's alive._

That was all that mattered.

* * *

Ah, we do love a happy ending here in the Jimiverse - it's the only sort we do.

Deary deary me - what sort of a patient will Dean make? Will he enjoy being mothered (dammed?) by Ronnie? Will he be a grumpy patient? He was always 'the good son' - will he be the same as the youngest of the pack? Or will his werewolf 'teenagerdom' be a storm of hormones and rebellion? Decisions, decisions - feed Mavgang the plot bunny reviews, so we can find out, because Reviews are the Amusingly Dismembered Vampires In The Basement Of Life!*

*If that's a bit grisly for you, try the Amusingly Barely Clothed Winchester Of Your Choice In The Basement Of Life. You deviated pre-verts.


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